The police car was speeding for a corner where the armored truck was due, but The Shadow didn't wait for the fugitive vehicle to arrive. He blasted shots at the rear tires of the police car, and, fortunately, they didn't stand the gaff. The police car hit the curb at the corner just as the armored truck zoomed across.
If The Shadow hadn't halted them, Cardona and his companions would have been juggernauted by the heavier, more powerful vehicle.
It was The Shadow who resumed the chase alone, telling Margo to keep a respectful distance behind the armored truck, since it was impregnable, whereas her coupe was not. Gaining a big lead, the truck went through a swirl of traffic on an avenue.
Had Moe been at the wheel, and this car his specially geared cab, he might have followed through; but Margo and her coupe were not equal to the job. Halted by the traffic, Margo turned to The Shadow and began words of apology, that she did not complete.
The Shadow was gone.
At Sherbrock's, half an hour later, The Shadow arrived as Cranston, to find Weston in charge. He had called the Cobalt Club and learned that his friend, the commissioner, had left a message for him.
Order was restored in Sherbrock's office, and Cranston showed some surprise to find Weston sorting batches of jewels which lay on Sherbrock's desk. They happened to be the same lot that Sherbrock had been pawing over with Dwig.
"It was a tip-off, Cranston," informed the commissioner. "Someone called the club and told me that Sherbrock was fencing stolen gems. I have an idea that the person who called me might have been one of the jewelers who were at the club earlier. They left soon after you did!"
The Shadow didn't comment on that point; in fact, he rather doubted it. But the gems couldn't be overlooked. Weston had already checked them as loot that unknown crooks had acquired in the recent robbery of a Midwestern jewelry store.
"Very clever, Sherbrock was," continued Weston. "He had deliveries made in regular jeweler's trucks.
The one that came tonight, bringing mobsters as its crew, bore the name of Baldwin Associates. We've called them, and learned that both of their trucks are stored for the night. The one that came here was a fake."
"A fake, all right," put in Cardona, who was standing by. "It ducked away before we got here. We ran into it later, after it picked up Sherbrock and the other crooks."
Weston eyed Cardona, somewhat sharply.
"What about The Shadow, inspector?"
"He was here," replied Cardona, laconically. "We ran into him at the office door. He slid out, and later he popped the tires on our car, just when he saw the truck."
"Rather odd," observed Weston, "for The Shadow to act in such fashion."
"Not at all," returned Cardona. "He was probably after Sherbrock, too. We met up with him by mistake.
I figure he shot our tires so we wouldn't get into trouble with the truck."
THE explanation suited the commissioner. He reverted to the subject of Sherbrock.
"Here is full proof of crime," asserted Weston. "Stolen jewels in Sherbrock's possession; his flight through a secret rear exit; use of a fake truck that offered battle when it fled. Roger Sherbrock is unquestionably the head man behind the mob of jewel robbers. As an expert gem cutter, he was equipped to unload stolen goods by changing the appearance of the gems."
It was a strong indictment, one that The Shadow considered in detail when he was riding back to the Cobalt Club with Weston. But through that chain ran one important thread: every whit of evidence against Sherbrock was purely circumstantial.
Dwig Brencott could have brought the truck on his own. On such short inspection, Sherbrock couldn't have known that the jewels were stolen ones. The elevator in the big vault might well be a device that Sherbrock had installed as a way out if crooks invaded his premises, more logically than something that he had planned as an aid to crime.
As for his flight, Sherbrock hadn't any choice. He'd been rushed by Dwig and the uniformed mobbies, men that he might have supposed were actually from Baldwin Associates. They hadn't given Sherbrock time to identify Cardona and his squad of detectives as men from police headquarters.
The Shadow could readily take that view, inasmuch as he had built up a circumstantial case against himself by first blocking Cardona's squad, and later wrecking a police car. Weston had dismissed those facts, because he regarded The Shadow as a foe to crime. Had it been anyone else, the commissioner would not have been so lenient.
Maybe Sherbrock's case deserved the same consideration that The Shadow's had received. The Shadow, deeply involved in the matter and a witness to occurrences at Sherbrock's, was definitely of that opinion. He wasn't willing to concede that Roger Sherbrock was the real head of the jewel-robbing outfit.
The Shadow's trail remained the same as before: to find Dwig Brencott and seek facts concerning six matched sapphires that had formerly been one great gem, the Star of Delhi!
CHAPTER VIII. REIGN OF MURDER
ALL during the next day, The Shadow kept in touch with Commissioner Weston. It didn't surprise the commissioner that his friend, Lamont Cranston, should drop into the office in the morning, suggest that they lunch together and, later, ride back to the office again in Weston's car. Contrarily, it rather pleased the commissioner.
Weston was a social climber and regarded Cranston as a good friend to have. Since Cranston was indifferent toward furthering acquaintances, it was usually Weston who insisted that the two go places together. Thus, on those rare occasions when Cranston cultivated Weston's company, the commissioner took it that his much-prized friend was coming around to Weston's own views.
Never did Weston guess that these periods really indicated Cranston's deep interest in some criminal investigation that the police were conducting; yet such was invariably the case. As Cranston, The Shadow had the habit of appearing quite bored at too much mention of current crime.
It was to Margo Lane that the quiet Mr. Cranston expressed the purpose of his frequent meetings with Weston during this important day. Cranston met Margo in a cafe lounge during the cocktail hour, and smiled approvingly when she ordered a Mirage, a pinkish drink that looked quite powerful, but did not have a drop of liquor in it.
"Good judgment, Margo," said Cranston, quietly. "I may be needing you later."
"After you've seen the commissioner again?" bantered Margo.
"Exactly!" Cranston glanced at his watch. "He will be at the Cobalt Club at half-past five. I want to be there when he arrives."
Margo took a sip of the Mirage, then queried:
"Why all this sudden interest?"
"Because of Sherbrock," replied Cranston. "I think that he may be innocent. If such is the case, crooks are holding him. Therefore it is important to check anything that the police learn about Sherbrock."
"So that you may get a trail to the guilty men - for instance, Dwig Brencott? Is that it, Lamont?"
For reply, Margo received a headshake.
"I can leave the guilty to The Shadow," was Cranston's laconic reply. "I merely felt that I, in my feeble way, might aid an innocent man."
Margo was still thinking that one over, when she saw Cranston stroll out to keep his appointment with the police commissioner. She approved Lamont's policy of discussing The Shadow as a distinct personality, but it did not deceive her. Margo had learned enough to understand the full extent of the present case.
With agents still on the hunt for Dwig Brencott, who had ducked away again without being recognized by Cardona and the detectives, The Shadow was personally keeping tabs with developments from the Sherbrock angle.
It was true that Cranston wanted to aid Sherbrock; equally certain that The Shadow could uncover mobsters if Sherbrock happened to be found. Hence, Margo could find no flaw in Lamont's statement.
Cranston would search for the innocent, and The Shadow would find the guilty. One and one made two -
which happened to be one and the same.
Another point occurred to Margo. If Sherbrock happened to be the real head
of the jewel mob, as the police believed, The Shadow - through his Cranston guise - would get to the guilty, anyway. But Margo accepted Lamont's opinion of Sherbrock at its face value. She only wished that she had asked him something else: his present views regarding the six sapphires, formerly the Star of Delhi.
Margo had come to the adamant conclusion that those gems, when located, would provide the complete answer to crime's riddle.
MATTERS promised well, as soon as The Shadow reached the Cobalt Club. He found Joe Cardona there, and the inspector was glad to see Weston's affable friend, Cranston, who was one man who often sided with Joe's opinions when they conflicted with the commissioner's.
Soon after, Weston arrived in a hurry, steered both men to a corner and spoke brusquely to Cardona:
"Well, inspector, let me see the message!"
Inferring that Weston wasn't keeping secrets from Cranston, Cardona produced the message, explaining it as he did.
"It's a letter," said the inspector. "It came into Sherbrock's office today, in the last mail. Sent last night, according to the postmark, before Sherbrock's mob knew we got a tip-off."
"A letter?" demanded Weston bluntly. "Then why did you call it a message?"
"Because it looks like one, commissioner."
It did look like a message. It was a half sheet of paper, folded twice, and its brief statement was typed in capitals that bore no signature. Weston read it, then showed it to Cranston. The message stated: H. J. COMING INTO NEW YORK TOMORROW. DON'T WORRY. EVERYTHING
IS FIXED. JAKE WILL TAKE CARE OF HIM AT FIFTY-FIVE.
The commissioner grunted, then queried:
"What do you make of it?"
He put the question to Cranston, but it was Cardona who answered. Joe already had a theory.
"I'd say it meant five minutes to the hour," declared the inspector. "But which hour - that's the question.
Unless the guy that wrote it was smart and tried some double talk. He might mean five-fifty. That would be ten minutes of six."
"Ridiculous!" snapped Weston. "Fifty-five is an address. Probably a number on some street right here in New York."
"There's more streets than there are hours, reminded Cardona. "With only twelve hours to pick from -"
"Twenty-four," corrected Weston. "Two sets of twelve."
"That's right," agreed Cardona. Then: "But there's two sets of streets, too - east and west. It doubles up on you, too, commissioner."
The Shadow smiled at the final quip, but his face was turned away. He was going to a phone booth; he called Margo and suggested that she meet him promptly, outside the Cobalt Club in her coupe. Of course, his tone was Cranston's.
He was still Cranston as he stepped from the booth to find Weston and Cardona beckoning to him.
From Weston's manner, The Shadow guessed that the commissioner had won out despite Cardona's neat dig.
"We're going on a tour," declared Weston. "We're going to zigzag across Fifth Avenue looking at all places that have the address of No. 55. Would you like to come along, Cranston?"
After brief consideration, The Shadow shook his head.
"It would take too long a time," he said, as he strolled with the others toward the door. "Besides, I'm expecting Miss Lane. We're going to have dinner at a night club. I don't know just which one -"
They had reached the street when Cranston's tone took its pause. His companions stared, wondering what had struck him. Slowly, he said:
"I wonder -"
Another pause, during which Margo's car swept into sight around the corner. Then Cranston added:
"I wonder if fifty-five could mean a street, rather than a building number?"
Weston shook his head; then, observing Cranston's fixed expression, the commissioner demanded why his friend had put the query.
"Because fifty-five would then mean Fifty-fifth Street," was The Shadow's reply. "As I recall it, there is a night club up there that took its name from the number of the street. It is called Club Fifty-five."
That was enough for Weston. He exclaimed the name, "Fifty-five!" and Cardona echoed it. Both were anxious to get started, but since Margo had by then arrived, Cranston decided to go in her car, saying that Club Fifty-five would be a good place to dine in case the lead proved worthless.
BOTH cars reached Club Fifty-five at the same time. By then, Cranston had explained matters to Margo; while Cardona, in his turn, had been expressing ideas to Weston.
Joe was so enthused that he started into the night club ahead of the others, flashed a badge at a startled head waiter and demanded:
"Who's Jake?"
"Why... why everything's jake!" the head waiter began. Then, properly comprehending the query, he added: "I guess you mean Jake, the barkeeper - over there."
There was just one barkeep on duty, a beefy man who was serving a drink to a rather drowsy customer perched on a stool, with head tilted against his arm. Cardona was about to start toward the bar, when Cranston's hand restrained him.
"Perhaps it would be better," suggested The Shadow quietly, "if one of us stopped there first. Myself, for example - or Miss Lane."
With Weston nodding, Cardona agreed, realizing that it would give him a chance to cover Jake without the barkeeper knowing it. The Shadow turned toward Margo in Cranston's polite manner. With a smile, the girl said:
"Very well, Lamont."
Reaching the bar while the others watched, Margo took a stool and ordered a drink. She was trying not to stare at Jake, hence her eyes went to the tipsy-looking customer who was slouched upon the bar.
She saw the drink that Jake had served the fellow, just beyond the reach of the man's outstretched hand.
Before making Margo's drink, Jake tapped the lounging customer on the shoulder.
Rather fascinated, Margo watched the man's hand move automatically toward the waiting glass, as though he saw it without lifting his eyes. The horror of the thing didn't grip her, until that moving hand had slid past the drink without touching it. By then, his shoulders were on the move, slumping downward. His head turned as he started a contorted sprawl from the bar stool.
Margo shrieked even before the toppling body hit the floor, for on the way, she saw the tumbling man's face as it tilted away from his arm.
The face was bloated, its lips spread in a frozen grin. Eyes were glazed and glaring, like objects of stone.
Mere sight of them gave Margo the terrifying truth.
The man was dead!
Cranston, Weston and Cardona were springing toward the bar, when Margo loosed the scream. But they were arriving on the scene too late. A reign of murder had begun!
CHAPTER IX. DEATH FINDS DEATH
"YOU'LL talk, Jake!"
Cardona had been repeating the same words for nearly half an hour, but without result. Jake, the barkeeper, had done all the talking that he could. Jake had tried to bolt when the dead man hit the floor, but he claimed he didn't know that the customer had died.
It was the sight of others coming to grab him that worried Jake. He had something of a criminal past - he admitted it - but he had been going straight for the past few years.
Cardona wasn't convinced, which was why be kept on quizzing Jake; but The Shadow, silent as he posed as Cranston, was quite sure that the barkeeper told the truth.
The dead man had been poisoned, which made it look bad for Jake, though the beefy bartender swore that he hadn't slipped anything lethal into any of the three drinks that the man had taken.
"This is a reliable place," Jake insisted. "We wouldn't even hand a tough guy a Mickey Finn. What would I gain sticking around, if I'd croaked the guy?"
That was just it. What would Jake have gained? Nothing, in The Shadow's silent opinion. He saw what lay behind the message that had come to Sherbrock's.
It was a fake tip-off, like the one that the police received the night before. Real murderers had known that a victim would die at Club Fifty-five, and were trying to plant the job on Jake because of the bartender's questionable
past.
The dead man's name was Howard Jorton, which fitted the initials "H. J." mentioned in the note. He was well-dressed, had plenty of money in his pocket, and was fairly well-known at Club Fifty-five, where he often came to spend the late afternoon.
Jorton was in the rug business, as evidenced by cards found on his person, but his office was closed when Weston tried to reach it by telephone. Apparently, Jorton had lived at some hotel, because there was a big key in his pocket with the number 331 on it; but it didn't bear the name of the hotel.
Having called headquarters to make a general check-up on hotels, Weston began an examination of Jorton's effects. Money, cards, and other items were spread along the bar, when Cranston called attention to a ring that Jorton wore on a finger of his left hand.
It was a gold ring, with a fair-sized stone that had no color. Weston drew it from the man's finger, which was rather difficult, since Jorton's hands were swollen. The police surgeon, recently arrived, attributed the swelling to the effect of the poison, which had not yet been identified.
"A cheap stone," declared Weston, as he held the ring to the light. "Too sparkling to be glass, but not good enough for a genuine diamond."
"A variety of quartz," identified The Shadow. "Such stones are often sold under the name of Brazilian diamonds. You are right, commissioner - they are very cheap, though persons are sometimes deceived by them."
A telephone bell was ringing. Taking it to be a call from headquarters, Weston answered. His voice immediately became both brisk and eager.
"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Jorton is here... He's to call Mr. Bayle? Which Mr. Bayle?... I see, Moreland Bayle. May I ask who you are?... You're Bayle's butler -"
A second later, Weston was hammering at the receiver hook. The speaker at the other end had hung up very suddenly. Pouncing for the phone book, Weston was trying to find the name of Bayle, when Cranston reached across his shoulder and pointed it out for him.
"Moreland Bayle -"
After the name, Weston repeated the number from the directory. But when he called Bayle's number, he received no reply, not even from the mysterious butler, a point which troubled The Shadow. The call had all the earmarks of another so-called tip-off, designed by crooks. It produced the sinister picture of further crime to come.
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