Cardona ran his finger down the list, came to two other names. He pa.s.sed a typewritten sheet to Weston.

"That's the testimony given by Helene Graymond," said Joe. "She typed it off for me, in Osman's office. She heard the killer enter and argue with Rendrew. She heard the shots, too. All the details fit with the evidence.

"As for Froy, the servant" - Cardona was referring to another sheet - "he's a funny-looking duck, who could tell plenty of lies if he wanted to. But in this case, he's told the truth. His statements fit right in with the others."

Again, Weston nodded; then: "Since the murderer was seen and pursued," he declared, "it seems superfluous to discuss these other persons further. The question is: who is the murderer?"

"Not Rahman Singh," returned Cardona, ruefully. "Why he was mixing in the Rendrew business, I don't know; but he's got a perfect alibi, since he was running a seance at the time of the crime. We don't know where he's gone, and questioning his servant hasn't helped.

"The servant was just a stooge who saw people in and out of the place.

The closest he'd ever been to India was Harlem. He doesn't even know whether Rahman Singh is a Hindu or not. Says he was scared of 'old whiskers'; thought maybe the spooks were real."

WESTON'S face was showing disappointment. It was time for Joe Cardona to play his trump card. He produced the evidence that he had found in the death room. The commissioner brightened when he saw the calendar, with its torn page and notation. The eyegla.s.s wiper also interested him.

"Dwight Kelden!" he exclaimed. "Who is he?"

"A nephew of old Rendrew," returned Cardona. "He lives in California, and this morning his cousin, Louise Dreller, got a letter from him. Here it is" - Cardona produced the letter - "and it says that Dwight was going to Mexico.

"My hunch is that he hopped a plane East, instead. Rendrew expected a visit from him, according to the calendar notation, and if I find out that Kelden bought his gla.s.ses from that Weeker outfit when he was East a year ago, we'll be getting places, commissioner."

The opinion satisfied the commissioner. Viewing Dwight Kelden as a possible murderer, he finally asked: "What would have been Kelden's motive? Hatred of his uncle, Adam Rendrew?" "n.o.body liked Rendrew," returned Cardona. "But there may be a money angle to the case. Louise let that out, and I questioned Osman afterward. He admitted that it might be the answer, but didn't want to talk about it until he and his attorney had a.s.sembled Rendrew's papers."

"Quite right," decided Weston. "It would be better to have actual facts, than hearsay."

"I'll be digging into that tomorrow," declared Cardona, "and by then, I hope to have another witness: the cab driver who took the murderer away from the scene. Here's a photograph of Dwight Kelden, that Louise Dreller gave me.

We'll identify him, all right, if we run across him.

"Meanwhile, I've put men to watch the Rendrew house, just in case Kelden is fool enough to come back there. I'm not holding any of the witnesses; they'll all be available when needed. The Graymond girl is going to stay at the house. I've detailed a man to go with her to her apartment while she packs some clothes to bring back with her."

LEAVING the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston smiled. As The Shadow, Cranston could have told facts regarding the cab that the police wanted. He had already received a report from Burbank covering the matter.

Unfortunately, the cab had left a broken trail. Until The Shadow had welded more links, his information would be useless to the law.

One name had not been mentioned in connection with the Rendrew murder: the name of Silk Elredge. It had an important bearing on the case, and demanded prompt investigation. Therefore, when Lamont Cranston entered his waiting limousine, he ordered the chauffeur to take him to the Club Cadiz.

Arrived there, Cranston dismissed the car for the night. With folded garment across his arm, he ignored the attendant who wanted to check his hat and coat. Going up the stairway, he joined a young man who was seated at one of the first tables.

Soon, The Shadow was receiving a report from one of his secret agents, Harry Vincent.

Though The Shadow had not expected crime to strike tonight, he had stationed Harry at the Club Cadiz, to keep tabs on visitors who met with Silk Elredge. In view of the Rendrew murder, it was more important to learn just where Silk had been all evening; and Harry was able to give facts.

Ostensibly, Silk hadn't left the night club, but there had been intervals when he stayed in his office. Harry, fortunately, had clocked those periods.

Silk's longest absence had been twenty minutes, from nine ten until nine thirty.

Harry was particularly positive on those times, because the floor show had begun at nine o'clock, and Silk had walked out on it. That had struck Harry as unusual because, normally, Silk would have watched the floor show, to see how it went over with the customers.

Of course, there were important matters that might drag Silk away at any time; nevertheless, Harry had made definite note of the time when the night-club owner went into the office, and had kept constant watch until his return.

At present, Silk was again in the office, and as The Shadow gazed in that direction, the fellow appeared. Silk was starting for the stairs that led up to the gambling room, and as luck had it, he gazed straight toward the table where The Shadow sat. Recognizing Cranston, Silk's eyes showed a sudden flicker; then, approaching, he purred a polite greeting and went his way.

Silk hadn't noticed Harry, seated beyond Cranston. As soon as Silk went upstairs, The Shadow told his agent to keep watch. Plucking his black garments from a chair, Cranston began to stroll toward Silk's office; by the time he had pa.s.sed the telephone booths, the cloak was sliding over his shoulders, the slouch hat on his head. Cranston had become The Shadow.

The office was lighted. In a few minutes, The Shadow found what he expected; an exit to a little stairway that led both up and clown. It was an ordinary door, fronted with a filing cabinet that had stacks of newspapers and magazines on top of it. The cabinet itself was attached to the door, and swung with it.

Searching the office for any evidence of Silk's business with Archie Dreller, The Shadow kept watching the usual door and the filing cabinet. While he looked about, he noticed a small electric-light bulb in a special socket under the ledge of Silk's flat-topped desk.

The light was glowing when The Shadow observed it; a few seconds later, it flickered off. Before The Shadow could investigate its purpose, he heard sounds beyond the filing cabinet. With a swift glide, he went out by the main door, just as Silk entered from the secret route.

Perhaps Silk suspected something, for he peered out into the pa.s.sage a few seconds later. By that time The Shadow was in one of the telephone booths, ready to drop his cloak and hat, to become Cranston, making a phone call, should Silk arrive.

SILK did not leave the office. Apparently, it was not his policy to come out by the regular door when he had entered through the secret one. He could see the tables from where he stood, and probably noticed that Lamont Cranston was gone. Harry Vincent, meanwhile, had shifted to another table.

When the office door closed, with Silk still inside, The Shadow dropped a coin in the telephone pay box and made a call from the booth. The quiet tone that answered was that of Burbank, the contact agent. Burbank made a brief report: "Dwight Kelden at Hotel Northley, registered in Room 416 under the name of David Armage."

"Report received."

The Shadow spoke his response in whispered tone. Hanging up, he noted that Silk's door was still closed. Easing from the phone booth, he glided toward the front stairs. Lights along the edge of the night club were dim; only Harry Vincent caught a glimpse of that pa.s.sing form and noticed a signal from one gloved hand.

Two patrons had just gone down; the hat-check girl was looking for their hats and coats, while they leaned across the counter of the cloakroom. Pa.s.sing unnoticed, The Shadow glided out to the street.

Reaching the nearest corner, he remained close to a darkened building wall until, about ten minutes later, a cab wheeled into a parking place and waited.

That cab was The Shadow's, its driver an agent named Moe Shrevnitz, who had been dispatched here by Burbank.

Blackness crossed the sidewalk, changed from a sliding patch to a tallform in black. Only for a half second did the figure hold that semblance; then it merged with the dark interior of the cab. A gloved hand closed the door; from the driver's seat, Moe heard the whispered order of his mysterious pa.s.senger: "Drive past the Rendrew house; then to the Hotel Northley. Full speed!"

The cab spurted away; Moe, his head c.o.c.ked toward the half-opened part.i.tion, hoped for an added order. It came: "Report!"

CHAPTER VI.

CROSSED PATHS.

Moe had a worth-while story to tell. He was responsible for gaining Dwight Kelden's trail. Whether or not Kelden had actually entered the mansion and slain Adam Rendrew, he had certainly been in that immediate vicinity, as a pa.s.senger in a taxicab, soon after the murder had occurred.

Antic.i.p.ating future trouble at the Rendrew house, The Shadow, busy elsewhere this evening, had instructed certain agents to look over the terrain and report on the mansion. In accordance with such orders, Moe had been cruising near there in a cab. Driving along an avenue, he had seen another cab whip out from the street in back of Rendrew's.

"It took the corner h.e.l.l-bent," described Moe, "like somebody had shoved a gat in back of the hackie's ear. So I tailed the cab over toward Times Square.

A.

guy jumped out, and the hackie beat it like he was glad to get away.

"I tried to pick up the fare, because he was looking for another cab, but another hack beat me to it. I dodged a block ahead, so it wouldn't look like I was following him, and then came in back.

"I got a look at the fellow when he got out of the second cab, and from what Burbank told me later, it was Dwight Kelden. He ducked into a drug-store and out another door, so I lost him. But I knew he hadn't gone far. Hawkeye was with me, and he finally picked the Northley. Then Cliff showed up, and clinched it."

The Shadow could piece the remaining details. Burbank had received a description of Kelden from Clyde Burke, who had gone back to the Rendrew house with Cardona. After Hawkeye, another agent, had picked the Hotel Northley as the fugitive's final refuge, an agent named Cliff Marsland had appeared there.

Cliff was better qualified than Hawkeye to enter even a second-rate hotel; for Hawkeye was a shabby, furtive little chap, whose specialty was sharp-eyed observation while slouching along darkened streets. Entering the Northley, Cliff had noted the hotel register; the latest name in that guest book had been David Armage, Room 416.

Driving at best speed while he reported, Moe had excellent luck in catching green lights along the way. In exactly twelve minutes after leaving the Club Cadiz, he reached the final avenue before the Rendrew house. There, Moe cruised slowly past the mansion, while The Shadow looked for the posted plain-clothes men mentioned by Cardona.

Four were on duty - two in front, two in the rear street - and they were keeping special vigil on the pa.s.sage that ran through beside the large house.

Changing his route, Moe made for the Hotel Northley, some twenty blocks distant. Several minutes had been lost because of the detour, but The Shadowregarded the time as worth while. He intended, later, to visit the old mansion; for the present, the Kelden matter seemed more important.

THE Northley was in a neighborhood off the main arteries of traffic, an ideal spot for The Shadow to conduct an unseen investigation. Moe parked on a deserted street and pointed to an alley leading into a courtyard in back of the hotel.

The Shadow saw a fire escape of the old-fashioned type leading up the rear wall of the brick hotel, near a corner of the structure.

Soon, he was in the courtyard. Lights were few in the rear windows, but there was a glow from the corner room on the fourth floor, only a short stretch from the fire-escape platform on that particular level. There was a good chance that the lighted room might be 416; if so, The Shadow would not have far to look for Dwight Kelden.

Off from that side of the hotel was a two-story garage with a flat roof.

Beyond the intervening structure, The Shadow saw the windows of a fair-sized apartment house. Such details often proved important; hence The Shadow studied them carefully before he drew down the swinging ladder that formed the bottom of the fire escape.

Silently ascending, The Shadow reached the level of the second floor, noticed that the garage roof was flat, as he had supposed. Continuing to the fourth floor, he studied the window that he wanted. Its shade was drawn, but light shone through the yellow-colored blind. The window was latched; the ledge outside was very narrow.

Considering the rather precarious position that he would have to take, plus the need for absolute silence while jimmying the window, The Shadow calculated at least five minutes for the task.

With painstaking care, he dug his fingers into crevices among the brick and sought a toe hold, as he ventured his right foot from the fire escape.

During the trip in Moe's cab, The Shadow had not seen a car that left the Rendrew mansion, for the simple reason that it had started a few minutes before his arrival. That car was driven by a detective sergeant named Markham, who was taking Helene Graymond to her apartment, which bore the pretentious t.i.tle of the Winslow Arms.

Helene's apartment was on the third floor. She and Markham entered a little living room, and the girl invited the detective sergeant to take a comfortable chair, while she packed.

"I ought to change my clothes," she added. "Could I take time for that?"

"Certainly, miss," rejoined Markham. "Whenever you're ready, we'll start back to the house."

Helene entered the bedroom. Markham was out of sight, so she left the door slightly ajar. After drawing down the shades, loudly enough for Markham to hear, she turned on a light. Changing her clothes was an excuse to gain more time than ordinary packing would require.

Hurriedly removing her dress while crossing the room, Helene opened a suitcase that lay beside the bureau. From a drawer she brought a package of letters, placed them in the suitcase and put some clothes on top of them.

A few seconds gained there, she went to the closet and made considerableclatter while placing her dress on a hanger. That was to create the impression that she had spent the entire time in taking off her dress.

There was a writing table close to the closet. Helene fished about it with one hand, to find a few more letters, using her other hand to tug at dresses, in the closet, which would indicate that she was having trouble choosing the one she intended to wear. The girl ended the clatter by picking a dress almost at random.

Carrying the fresh dress to the bed, Helene laid it there; then took off her shoes and let them drop, not too heavily, to the floor. She intended to put those same shoes on again, but felt that if Markham heard the thumps, he would suppose that she had started to change stockings as well as shoes and allow time accordingly.

DETECTIVE SERGEANT MARKHAM would have been surprised, and probably intrigued, had he been impolite enough to peer into that room during the next minute. A shapely figure in silk scanties and stockings, Helene was tip-toeing to a corner near the window. There she opened the drawer of a dressing table and drew out a large photograph.

The portrait showed a young man with square-set face; expressive eyes were beneath straight brows. His features were handsome; they were enhanced by the slight curl of his tight hair. That photograph, too, would have interested Detective Sergeant Markham. It was a picture of Dwight Kelden.

Coming suddenly from a reverie induced by her study of the photo, Helene hurried softly to the bag that lay open on the bureau. There, she placed the picture in the bottom; there weren't enough garments in the bag to hide it completely, and rather than run any risk, the girl stealthily opened a bureau drawer and brought out a few more items for the suitcase.

She could spare a minute more, she thought; then she would have to get back and put on the other dress. After that, she could carry the bag out to the living room and complete her packing there, in Markham's presence.

But that coming minute was to produce consequences that Helene had not antic.i.p.ated.

Directly outside the girl's bedroom window was the roof of a low-built garage. Beyond the roof of the garage was the side wall of the Hotel Northley.

There, in a corner window that faced toward the Winslow Arms, stood the original of the photograph that Helene had just hidden.

Framed against the room light, Dwight Kelden's face was plainly recognizable. He was looking toward the windows of Helene's apartment, hoping that the girl might later raise a shade and see him. Dwight was so concentrated on that hope that he did not notice a stir in the room behind him.

A rear window had opened. A cloaked shape was swinging across the sill.

With quick, gliding strides, The Shadow approached the man at the side window, placed a hand upon his shoulder and spoke an introduction in forceful, whispered tone.

Startled by that sibilance, Dwight wheeled about. His hand went to his pocket, as if seeking a gun. The Shadow's fist was quicker, girding Dwight's wrist. Expecting some frenzied resistance on Dwight's part, the cloaked visitor gained a grip with his other hand, intending to subdue the wanted man after a brief grapple.

Dwight Kelden might have accepted The Shadow's persuasion, if another interruption had not come with startling swiftness. As The Shadow twisted Dwight inward from the window, his own form came into the light. Sight of theblack-cloaked figure brought a hoa.r.s.e shout from the garage roof, one story below.

"The Shadow! Get him!"

With the utterance of his name, The Shadow flung Dwight Kelden to the floor. The move was one of the timeliest that The Shadow ever performed. The finish of the shout was punctuated by the bark of guns. Bullets whistled through the open window, above the rolling pair. Other shots smashed the gla.s.s in the raised sash.

Noting that the fire was high, The Shadow released Dwight and wheeled about close to the floor. Poking a drawn automatic past the lower corner of the window, he stabbed reply shots at targets revealed by gun spurts. One shout turned to a howl: then another.

Dwight was on hands and knees, grabbing at the room door. It gave, bowling him back into a corner. The Shadow spun about against the wall beside the window, jabbing shots into a deluge of incoming thugs.

They were upon him before he could damage them sufficiently, slugging with guns that they hadn't time to aim, thanks to The Shadow's skillful fade in the direction that they did not expect - toward the window.

Shoved half across the sill, The Shadow had only one course. Lifting his feet high and wide, he drove them into the ma.s.sed enemies about him. The stroke bowled back the nearest fighters, but the pressure of the rest produced the opposite result.

Teetered upon the window sill, The Shadow was flung headlong outward.

The fall was short - a mere ten feet to the pitch-black garage roof just below. But The Shadow took it under the worst of circ.u.mstances. It was a back dive, that threatened to land him head foremost. Only a quick fling of his arms took the full force from his skull.

Conscious after he landed, the cloaked fighter was momentarily numbed.

His hands seemed weighted as they reached for guns. p.r.o.ne in the darkness, The Shadow was striving to pull himself back into the fray, knowing that he could succeed if granted a mere minute longer.

But crooks were claiming that minute as their own. Their shouts told it, from along the roof and at the window above. Men of crime were exultant, confident that the time had come to deliver a long-awaited stroke: Death to The Shadow!