Shadowed Millions s-21

by Maxwell Grant

  chosen to keep it so. None would suspect me. The men in Santander would agree.

  “And then, unfortunately, Rodriguez Zelva would be forced to reveal himself as the clever ringleader of a

  band of international crooks. But”—the speaker shrugged his shoulders—“Rodriguez Zelva could afford

  to do it for ten million dollars. Eh?”

  Pete Ballou was nodding in commendation. This was typical of Zelva. He was always playing ahead of

  the game, moving his underlings like pawns on a chessboard, keeping himself from the limelight. Never

  yet had Zelva been forced to come out into the open. Now, however, such an action would be worth the

  stake.

  “Ten million dollars,” remarked Zelva, his black eyes shining with the thought of the sum. “I shall have it,

  Ballou—and you will profit because you have helped me. I have many things to do—but why should I

  bother further? Once I am gone away from here—from this country—”

  He leered as he stared at Pete Ballou.

  “It is all ready,” added Zelva. “I have been waiting for something big like this. Why do you think I have

  kept secret ownership of those liquor boats that come up from Mexico? The ones that Salati arranged

  for? Just to send in bottles so that people here in New York could make a profit? No”—Zelva's eyes

  gleamed—“there have been other reasons.

  “A way that comes in is a way that goes out. Through those who have met the little boats from the rum

  ships, you have gained the help of Silk Dowdy and those other men who are watching Legira. When the

  money is ours, it shall go out as the liquor has come in.

  “I have not told you this before, Ballou. I am telling you now, because I think that it is important. We

  soon shall have the money.”

  “You think that Legira—”

  “I think that Legira will do all to get that money to-morrow. If he fails, I shall work swiftly when I deal

  with those men in Santander. I can win their confidence—so quick that all will be very easy.

  “So watch, Ballou. Stay at your hotel and have your men report. Have them ready for your word. If

  Legira should manage to get the money, it must be taken from him. If he should not so manage, you must

  strike at midnight. My threats will never fail!”

  Pete Ballou rubbed his hands enthusiastically. Zelva looked at him with a smile. The scheming South

  American was pleased at his own craftiness. He was also smiling at Ballou's simplicity.

  There were other factors that Zelva had considered but had not mentioned. False implication of Legira in

  the death of Hendrix might cause complications. Pete Ballou, at large, was a menace. That was another

  important reason why Zelva planned prompt action.

  He could not afford to have Ballou, the actual murderer, continuing the work of watching Legira's home.

  But Zelva, crafty leader of crooks of many nationalities, was too wise to put pessimistic thoughts into the

  mind of Pete Ballou.

  “You must go now,” declared Zelva. “Be careful when you leave. Do not come here again.”

  He paused and stared at the floor beside the window. A shadowy blot was swaying on the floor. It

  seemed to glide away as Zelva watched it.

  The chunky South American looked quickly toward the window. He was too late to spy the form that

  had risen and swung over the edge of the rail outside. Zelva strode to the balcony. He looked below at

  the projection two floors beneath. He saw nothing except blackness. He lingered; then returned to the

  room.

  IMMEDIATELY after Zelva's departure from the rail, the blackness on the balcony beneath became a

  living mass. The window of the room below rose silently, then closed. The Shadow had made a quick

  drop of nearly twenty feet. Silently, he had waited; then had gone.

  Rodriguez Zelva shrugged his shoulders when he stepped back into the room. His interest in that fleeting

  shadow had faded. He said nothing about it as he motioned Pete Ballou toward the outer door.

  Ballou was cautious as he left the Goliath Hotel. He walked down a few flights before he summoned an

  elevator—a plan that he had used when he had come here. He rode to the Hotel Oriental in a taxicab

  and went immediately to his room.

  The hallway was dim, due to a burned-out light. As he pushed the key into the lock with his right hand,

  Ballou encountered the surface of the door with his finger tips. Entering his room, he noted a stickiness on

  his fingers and thumb.

  Ballou turned on a table light and pressed his fingers upon a newspaper that lay there. His fingers left a

  dark smudge. Ballou decided that paint must have been applied to the door. He did not bother to

  investigate. He tossed the newspaper into the wastebasket and went into the bathroom to wash the paint

  from his fingers.

  The moment that Ballou had stepped from the room, a tall figure emerged from the corner. Stooping, the

  unseen visitor plucked the newspaper from the basket. Deft, black-clad fingers tore away a portion of

  the front page and replaced the newspaper so that the damaged part was beneath.

  The figure of The Shadow was revealed as the strange visitor glided past the opened door of the lighted

  bathroom. Then the outer door of the room opened and closed without the slightest semblance of a

  sound.

  The Shadow had arrived here before Pete Ballou. Now he was gone. At Zelva's, he had learned the

  plans of the conspirators and had discovered that they knew nothing of the trick by which Legira had

  deceived them. Here, at Ballou's, The Shadow had laid a simple but effective trap that Pete Ballou had

  not suspected.

  Once more, The Shadow was on his way. Somewhere, amid the silent, early morning streets, he was

  planning new work for the morrow. His plans concerned more than Alvarez Legira and Pete Ballou. For

  now, The Shadow knew both the identity and the ways of Rodriguez Zelva—the man higher up.

  CHAPTER XIX. CARDONA RECEIVES INSTRUCTIONS

  DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was not in a pleasant mood when he strode into the office of Inspector

  Timothy Klein, the morning after the murders in the apartment of John Hendrix. The sight of the

  inspector's face did not raise the detective's spirits.

  “You've seen this, Joe?” was Klein's first question.

  The inspector indicated a newspaper which lay upon the desk.

  “Guess I've seen it,” responded Cardona. “I read all the morning papers.”

  “This is an evening edition,” said Klein, quietly. “I just bought it.”

  Cardona picked up the sheet and stared at the headlines. Then he began to scan the paragraphs below.

  “Nothing new,” he growled. “This stuff about Hendrix having negotiations with South American interests

  don't mean anything. I looked into that last night.”

  “Read here,” remarked Klein, leaning forward and pointing to a paragraph set in bold-face type.

  Cardona's eyes flashed angrily as he perused the lines. He threw the newspaper on the desk and stared

  sullenly at Klein. The inspector's face was serious.

  “Panning me, eh?” grumbled Cardona. “Playing up the fact that I let the murderer get away. Fine guys,

  these reporters! Tell them facts and they turn against you. How could I have done any more than I did? I

  had my men posted all around the place.”

  “You lost your man, Joe,” returned Klein, in a sober voice. “You went there to get him—if he was still on

  the ground. He made a get-away.”

  The
detective was forced to admit the logic of the argument. He thrust his hands into his pockets and

  stalked about the room, wearing an expression of impatience.

  “Any new clews?” inquired Klein.

  “No,” answered Cardona. “I was in here at seven o'clock; then I went out again. I've been figuring

  gangsters in this mess, but so far I haven't gotten any trace of the men I want. Those finger prints are a

  blank. I've had them compared with the records. They don't fit any crook that is on my list—”

  “Gangsters, eh?”

  “Sure thing. Three killings. A clean get-away. That guy was a tough baby. I'll get him, though; get him if it

  takes me a long while!”

  “The quicker the better,” commented Klein. “You know the public, Joe. They eat up anything about the

  inefficiency of the police. That get-away was bad business.”

  “There's a lot of angles to this case,” declared Cardona, seemingly anxious to change the turn of the

  conversation. “It may have been Powell they were out to get—not Hendrix. I've got men working on the

  Powell angle.”

  “What was Powell's job?”

  “Sort of an investigator for Hendrix. Worked on different jobs. No one seems to know just what he was

  doing lately. That's the rub of it. He reported direct to Hendrix. Either one might have been able to give

  us the dope we need. But both were bumped off.”

  “Keep after it, Joe,” said Klein. “That's all I can tell you. But you know how the commissioner flares up

  when he reads stuff like this.”

  Klein pointed to the newspaper and Cardona nodded. The detective was well acquainted with the foibles

  of the police commissioner. He felt that Klein understood the difficulties of last night's situation; but,

  unfortunately, Klein was merely an inspector.

  WALKING toward his own office, Cardona experienced a confused medley of thoughts. This case

  loomed before him like a stone wall. The obstacles seemed to be increasing; and the criticism of the

  newspapers was no encouragement. Reaching his office, Cardona noted a letter lying upon the desk.

  Mechanically, he opened it and drew forth the contents.

  The envelope contained a folded newspaper clipping. Cardona threw the piece of paper upon the desk.

  This was insult upon injury. Some one riding him already!

  Wrathfully, Cardona brushed the clipping aside and watched it flutter to the floor. He leaned back in his

  chair and stared sullenly toward the wall.

  It was several minutes before his mind went back to that discarded clipping. The envelope, still lying on

  the desk, brought a new interest. It was stamped and postmarked. It was addressed in a carefully

  lettered manner. Cardona noted that the postmark read 3 a.m. It dawned upon him that this envelope

  could not have contained a clipping that had reference to the murder. The detective became curious.

  He reached to the floor and picked up the clipping. He unfolded it and laid it on the desk. Then,

  Cardona's eyes bulged with astonishment.

  Implanted upon the piece of torn newspaper were the impressions of fingertips!

  Cardona fumbled in his pocket and brought out photographic impressions of the finger prints that he had

  obtained in the room of the death. His first comparison showed marked similarity between those records

  and the prints on the sheet of newspaper. Cardona leaped to his feet. He started toward Klein's office;

  then suddenly changed his mind and returned to the desk.

  Who had sent this sheet of paper?

  Cardona was reflective. He realized that it would be best for him to maintain silence for the present. To

  make a furor about this new bit of evidence would be a grave mistake. He had no clew to the sender. He

  knew only that some one had voluntarily sought to give him aid. Who could that some one be?

  Had Joe Cardona been an ordinary detective, his mind would have reverted immediately to Lamont

  Cranston. But Cardona's experiences had been unique in the past; and this new event bore a marked

  resemblance to others that had occurred before.

  This was not the first time that Cardona had been the recipient of unusual clews. Whenever he received

  live tips from an anonymous source, it was Cardona's policy to connect them definitely with one name.

  The Shadow!

  To Joe Cardona, that mysterious personage was a real, living figure. At times, when unsolved crimes had

  thwarted the detective, he had received unexpected word from an unknown source. He was convinced

  that such messages came from The Shadow.

  On certain occasions, Cardona had actually encountered a strange figure clad in black—a man who

  seemingly had the power to materialize himself from nowhere and to vanish into the shrouded atmosphere

  of night.

  Others had heard of The Shadow. Cardona had heard from him. Others told of those who had seen him.

  Cardona was one who had actually seen The Shadow. Others had spoken of the vengeance which The

  Shadow wreaked upon evildoers. Cardona had watched the hand of The Shadow deal death to fiends of

  the underworld.

  WITH keen, inquisitive eyes, the detective scanned the piece of newspaper. No message had

  accompanied it. An inspection showed the envelope to be empty.

  Again, Cardona examined the finger prints. Then he noticed three tiny dots upon a word that appeared in

  one of the columns. Looking closely, he saw other dots. They evidently indicated certain words.

  Seizing a pencil, Cardona began to write down each word that was thus marked.

  The result was a jargon of a dozen words that read as follows:

  wanted take plan man for to before wait giving noon word sure

  Cardona puzzled over this jumbled message. He began another examination of the printed words.

  He noted that one was marked with a small, single dot; another with two; then three; then four. Next

  came a series of dots that were slightly larger; then some that had tails like commas; finally, reversed

  commas.

  Following this key, Cardona suddenly hit upon the correct order. He wrote this message:

  Wait for word before noon giving sure plan to take wanted man.

  The detective glanced at his watch. It showed eleven o'clock. Impatiently, Cardona arose and paced

  back and forth across the office. He sensed the hand of The Shadow. He was positive that within an hour

  he would receive further word.

  Ten minutes went by. They were restless minutes for Joe Cardona. The telephone rang, Cardona sprang

  to the desk. He was holding the receiver in his hand before the ringing ceased.

  “Cardona speaking,” he said.

  A quiet, monotonous voice came over the wire. Its tones were scarcely recognizable as those of a living

  being. They carried a note that was ghostly in its semblance.

  “The time is midnight,” declared the voice.

  “Where?” queried Cardona, breathless.

  “You will be informed before that hour,” said the voice.

  “Where will I receive word?” asked the detective.

  “Where you now are,” came the all-important words. “You will learn the plan in time to act.”

  “Who is the man I want?”

  “You will be told when you receive the plan.”

  “Will I need other men?”

  “Yes. A large squad.”

  The voice ended suddenly. Cardona clicked at the hook to no avail. The message was finished.

  A trifle bewildered, Cardona hung up the receiver. This had been an unexpected item in the case which

 
confronted him. He knew no more now than he had known before, regarding the actual identity of the

  murderer who had killed three men.

  Somewhere, somehow, he would have an opportunity to capture the man he wanted—and the time

  would be at midnight. That depended purely upon whether the information which he had just received

  was accurate.

  Pondering, Cardona experienced serious qualms. He realized that if he were the victim of a hoax, his

  following of the suggested plans would be greatly to his disadvantage.

  Suppose that this was the work of some one connected with the murderer—a plot to delude Cardona

  and throw him off the trail? If Cardona worked in accordance with the plan, he would be forced to

  remain at headquarters for twelve hours, idle all the while.

  Cardona began to pound the desk with his fist. He stared at the paper with its fingered impressions. He

  recalled the tones of the voice that had come over the wire. Carefully, Cardona picked up the piece of

  newspaper and placed it, with its envelope, in a desk drawer. He left the office and strolled in to see

  Inspector Klein.

  “I'm working on a hunch,” declared Cardona, solemnly. “I want to follow it, if there is no objection.

  Maybe, by to-morrow morning—”

  Inspector Klein smiled. Cardona's hunches were famous at headquarters. Some said they were luck;

  others, that they were exaggerated. Klein regarded them as the keen intuitions of a shrewd crime-fighter.

  He had great faith in Cardona's hunches.

  “Go ahead, Joe,” said Klein approvingly. “I have nothing to say. Work on this as you see best—until

  to-morrow morning.”

  “O. K.,” replied Cardona.

  Inspector Klein watched the detective as he left the room. Cardona, Klein believed, was at his best when

  following his own dictates. For the next twenty hours, the detective would be a man unencumbered by

  instructions.

  In this, Klein was wrong. Joe Cardona, despite his preference for the life of a lone ace, was following

  instructions. The star detective had received orders and expected to abide by them. Those were the

  orders which Cardona had heard across the wire—instructions which he fully believed could have come

  from no one but The Shadow.

  Convinced in his own mind, Cardona had picked his course. Unknown to any but himself, he was blindly