Tower of Death

CHAPTER IV THE SHADOW’S TRAIL

POLICE whistles shrilled close by. A siren whined as a patrol car whirled down the side street, its searchlight playing a wide gleam. The taxicab beside the curb; the touring car rammed against a house wall; the sedan deserted in the middle of the block — these were tokens of the fight that had been waged.

Harry Vincent and Cliff Marshland had gained the avenue. No sign of The Shadow’s agents remained. Officers, alighting from their car, found mobsters sprawled upon the paving. But they did not see the two figures on the sidewalk near the taxicab.

Luskin, doomed, was stretched upon his back, his eyes were closed. His lips were moving feebly. Above him, a specter of blackness, crouched The Shadow. Burning eyes were upon the moving lips. The Shadow was seeking to read the utterances that were inaudible.

“Fifty thousand — dollars” — Luskin framed the words. “He — can get — a million—”

“Who?”

The Shadow’s question was a whisper.

“Haverly,” gasped Luskin, “A million — if he can get it. A million dollars—”

The lips twitched. They did not respond to the dying man’s delirious thoughts. Luskin’s head sank back. The man was dead.

The Shadow did not rise. Still crouching, he let Luskin’s body slide gently to the sidewalk. The Shadow could hear the shouts of policemen on the other side of the cab. New sirens — other cars were coming.

A cordon was forming in this street. Already, officers were starting to come around the cab. Listening, The Shadow knew that they would soon be at this spot where he still lurked unseen. Then came an opportunity.

A shout arose from the other side of the cab. A policeman, heading for the sidewalk, dashed back toward the street. A revolver barked; a man cursed. A police car came to a sudden stop as it whirled up beside the cab. There were sounds of a brief scuffle.

Jake, the fake cab driver, had tried to escape. He alone had escaped The Shadow’s bullets. Reviving from the knock-out blow which the gloved fist had dealt to his chin, Jake had made a bolt, only to be stopped by a policeman’s shot.

THE SHADOW rose swiftly. During the momentary interval, he made a quick whirl toward the building wall beyond the sidewalk. His figure merged with darkness just as another policeman approached the sidewalk by the cab.

A glimmering flashlight swept the pavement. Its rays passed by The Shadow’s feet. They did not disclose the lurking form. Then the flashlight revealed the body of Luskin. A shout brought another officer. He stumbled over the form of Burnetti.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the pavement. A stocky, swarthy-faced man appeared within the flashlight’s glare. He was in plain clothes. It was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force.

Cardona’s verdict was a quick one, formed as soon as the sleuth had spied the face of Luskin.

“This was the fellow they were after,” declared the detective. “He’s no gorilla. They got him all right — but they had a tough time doing it.”

Cardona swung to survey the face of Burnetti, which was now spotted in the circle of a policeman’s flashlight. The detective grunted.

“There’s a tough mug,” decided Cardona. “I know the guy. Burnetti. I’ve been waiting to pin something on this bird. I know who he works for, but this is the first time I’ve found him with the goods.

The detective turned to a policeman who had come up beside him. He gave an order.

“We’re going over to the Solkirk Apartments,” stated Cardona. “It’s by the old Majestic Theater. We’re dropping in on Mallet Haverly, the racketeer. He’ll talk tonight. Burnetti was his man—”

A policeman had opened the door of the cab. Cardona turned as he heard an exclamation. Like a spotlight, an electric torch in the officer’s hand revealed the slumped form of Dirk Halgan. Cardona uttered another grunt of recognition.

“This clinches it,” announced the sleuth. “Dirk Halgan — another pal of Mallet Haverly’s. Say — it’s too bad Rags Wilkey wasn’t in on this, too. He was Mallet’s best bet, before we got on his trail.”

Cardona turned. He produced his own flashlight. He took a measure which the policemen had neglected. He sent the glimmer of his torch along the house wall near the taxi. He was looking for lurkers. His light blazed upon the brick surface where The Shadow had been standing.

The glimmer revealed no sign of a human figure. The Shadow had anticipated this action. Silently, with amazing stealth, he had edged away from his position while the police and the detective were centered upon their discoveries of the dead bodies.

Joe Cardona snapped another order. He and the policeman with him went to their car and headed down the block. Joe was losing no more time in his plan to reach Mallet Haverly before the racketeer might receive word of the Waterloo which his minions had encountered.

WHILE Cardona and his companion were starting on their course, a trim coupe was pulling up in the darkness near the old Majestic Theater. A figure alighted and chose a streak of blackness that loomed across the street beneath the front of the deserted theater. It was The Shadow.

His very progress unnoticed, this weird prowler gained the side of the Solkirk Apartments. He entered through a side door that showed a flight of steps to the basement. The Shadow descended. He stood in a deserted corridor. His form, revealed by a single incandescent, looked like a specter from another world.

The Shadow, like Joe Cardona, had picked the place for new investigation. Ahead of the detective, he had reached the apartment house where Mallet Haverly lived. An empty service elevator was in view at the end of the corridor. The Shadow entered it and closed the door.

A few minutes later, the door of Mallet Haverly’s apartment opened softly. The figure of The Shadow appeared in the garishly furnished living room. Floor lamps were alight. The place looked as though its occupants had just stepped out.

The Shadow crossed the living room. He entered an adjoining chamber. A tiny flashlight played from his gloved hand.

The apartment was deserted. The furniture — evidently rented with the apartment — was undisturbed. But there was no sign of personal belongings.

Mallet Haverly had departed. The Shadow stopped short. His light went out. He had detected the opening of the outer door. His eyes peered through the crack of a door that led to the living room. The Shadow saw Joe Cardona. The detective had entered, with a pair of blue-coats at his heels.

Swiftly, The Shadow crossed the room. He reached a window and raised the sash. His figure stepped to a small balcony. Long arms reached upward. The Shadow raised himself to a balcony above.

Hanging batlike beneath the hedgelike projection, The Shadow waited. He had not closed the window. He could hear the tramp of feet and the sound of voices. The light came on in the room which The Shadow had left. Cardona and the officers were searching the place.

Long minutes passed. Cardona appeared beside the open window. The detective stared at the balcony, as though picking it as a last possible spot. He shrugged his shoulders and uttered a disappointed growl.

“Maybe Mallet got a tip-off,” he decided. “Anyway, he’s scrammed — and it’s a bet that Speedy Tyron beat it with him. Well — it got too hot for them. We’ll put fliers out. Mallet Haverly is through, even if we don’t know where he’s gone.”

Cardona pronounced this decision with glum satisfaction. Accompanied by the policemen, the detective left the apartment, after extinguishing the lights. Silence followed; then came the soft swish of a cloak as The Shadow dropped from the upper balcony and reentered the window.

THE disklike ray of The Shadow’s flashlight moved through the darkness. All along, The Shadow could see evidences of Cardona’s search. The detective had made positive that Mallet Haverly had gone to stay. Yet Cardona and his helpers had found no clew to Mallet’s destination.

In the living room, The Shadow’s flashlight revealed the ash stand. The rays showed a curled cluster of ashes. These were not the residue of tobacco. A gloved hand plucked the tray from the stand and held it above a table. A slight swaying motion; the ashes fluttered intact and dropped upon the table.

While one hand carefully adjusted the burned fragments, the other held the light. There, like the portions of a jigsaw puzzle, showed blackened lines that formed the shape of the destroyed picture.

Although the outline was not clear, The Shadow saw that this had been a post card bearing the picture of a building. The flashlight steadied upon a curled corner and its rays showed blackened letters which The Shadow’s keen eyes traced:

The name of the building and the town near which it was located. These facts were all The Shadow needed. His free hand gathered up the ashes; gloved fingers let them flutter, breaking into tiny bits. The destroyed pieces dropped into the ash tray. The Shadow replaced it in the stand.

Out went the flashlight. A soft laugh sounded in the darkness. The Shadow had found the only clew. His keen brain was piecing the words that Luskin had uttered. A million — where Mallet Haverly could get it!

Where?

In the ashes, The Shadow had found the answer. A building called Montgard — near the town of Glenwood. That was the logical destination which Mallet Haverly had chosen.

Silently, The Shadow left the apartment and descended by the service elevator. His tall form reached the darkness outside of the apartment building. From then on, The Shadow’s course was untraceable.

LATER, a light clicked in a silent room. Long, white hands appeared beneath the flickering rays of a shaded, bluish lamp. Fingers used pen to inscribe a coded note in writing of vivid blue ink. The hands folded the message and sealed it in an envelope.

From his sanctum, the hidden abode wherein The Shadow formed his campaigns, the master sleuth was sending new instructions. He was dispatching his trusted agents — Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland — to the town of Glenwood.

As soft laugh sounded as an unseen hand clicked off the light. The mirth rose to a strident tone. Its sardonic mockery broke into shuddering, ghoulish echoes. When the throbbing sounds had died, silence held deep sway.

The Shadow had gained his clew. The Shadow had begun his new quest. The Shadow had departed from his sanctum. The first steps against impending crime were under way.

The Shadow had divined some hidden purpose in the murder of Luskin and Mallet Haverly’s prompt departure from New York. His agents would set forth to check upon his findings.

Should The Shadow’s operatives report strange doings near the town of Glenwood, The Shadow, himself, would visit that locality to deliver new counterstrokes against men of crime!