DEATH FROM NOWHERE
                                by Maxwell Grant

    As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," July 15, 1939.

    Death from nowhere...but The Shadow was there to trace its source!


    CHAPTER I

    CRIME TO COME

    THERE were very few patrons in the Club Cadiz at the early hour of five
in
the afternoon. Archie Dreller noticed that when he came up the stairs from the
street. A smile formed on his sallow, weak-chinned face, bringing a twitch to
the feeble tips of his half-grown mustache.
     Passing a row of tables, Archie sneaked to a short hallway beyond the
telephone booths and knocked at the door of Silk Elredge's office. A smooth
voice invited him to enter and Archie did so, after casting a shoulder look
along the dim passage behind him.
     That short hallway was not as deserted as Archie supposed. A tall,
hawk-faced patron had risen from a table when the young man went by, and had
taken the same route. Near the passage, however, the personage in question had
merged with the gloomy background, thanks to garments that he had drawn over
head and shoulders.
     Attired in black cloak and slouch hat, he was a thing unseen as he glided
toward the closing door of the office. With gloved hand, he turned the knob
slowly, imperceptibly, and edged the door inward a mere half inch.
     The Shadow, strange being who trailed crime to its source, was looking in
upon this interview between Archie Dreller and Silk Elredge.
     Usually, chaps like Archie visited Silk because they owed him money lost
at the faro table on the floor above. This, however, was Archie's fourth call
during the past week: and the frequency of those visits told that something
else was afoot. Apparently, they had settled the details previously, for this
conference proved very brief.
     Across the desk from Archie sat Silk Elredge, faced partly toward the
door. His roundish face had a smoothness that went with his oily tone; the
only
expression that he ever betrayed was a slight flicker of his eyes. Silk was
listening, with poker-faced attitude, when Archie questioned eagerly:
     "Then I won't have to talk to my uncle?"
     "Not a word," purred Silk. "Have your friends in for the poker party as
usual tonight."
     "And tomorrow?"
     "Start on that cruise we talked about. You've made the arrangements,
haven't you?"
     "Yes. But I was afraid you'd changed your mind -"
     "I seldom change my mind."
     Silk spoke that sentence with a final note, that meant the interview was
ended. Archie arose, gave a grin.
     "I'll run along and meet my sister," he declared. "She's got to be
somewhere at five-thirty, and I'm taking her there. Anything else, Silk?"
     "Yes." Silk's eyes showed a flicker. "You'd better hold that poker game
to
a five-ten limit, so you won't be broke when you go on board ship tomorrow."
     There was vacancy in the passage when Archie Dreller went out. Silk
Elredge followed, a few moments later, and paused to look around the night
club. He saw a tall, hawk-faced customer rising from a corner table, and
approached.
     "Good afternoon, Mr. Cranston," greeted Silk. "It's rather unusual,
seeing
you here so early."
     "I enjoy solitude," returned Cranston, in an even tone, "and no place
could be more quiet than a night club at five in the afternoon."
     The statement brought a nod of agreement from Silk. The proprietor of the
Club Cadiz started across the dance floor. Halfway to the bar, a sudden
thought
struck him; he decided to return and give some pretext for talking further
with
Cranston. But when Silk finally turned about, he noticed the early customer
going down the stairway, carrying hat and coat across his arm.


     MEANWHILE, Archie Dreller had reached a sporty roadster, wherein he
slouched behind the wheel and lighted a cigarette, expecting a prolonged wait
before his sister Louise joined him. To his amazement, she arrived within ten
minutes.
     Though Louise had features that resembled Archie's, she was quite
attractive. Archie's profile consisted of a sloped forehead, a sharp nose,
puffy lips, and no chin - a very poor combination.
     As for Louise, her fluffy blond hair produced an attractive forehead; her
nose, though thin, had an aristocratic touch. Her lips were definitely
languorous, and her chin could be properly described as small.
     She was gifted, too, with a dimply smile and baby-blue eyes that carried
a
trustful gaze. Archie, however, considered the smile and the stare as proof
that
there was no brain behind them. He gave a snort when Louise told him that she
wanted to go to an address in the East Fifties.
     "I thought so!" he exclaimed savagely, as he wheeled the roadster from
the
curb. "You're going to see that fortuneteller again!"
     "Rahman Singh is not a fortuneteller," reproved Louise. "He is an adept!"
     "An adept at what?"
     "He holds the wisdom of the East."
     Archie thought that one over, while they paused in front of a traffic
light. He gave another snort.
     "Wisdom of the East Side, you mean! If Rahman Singh is such a hot-shot,
why isn't he on Park Avenue?"
     "His surroundings are unimportant to him," replied Louise. "His occult
powers are superior to all else. He has proven that by the remarkable things
that he has told me."
     Archie nervously slipped the car into gear. Giving a side glance toward
his sister, he asked anxiously:
     "What did he tell you?"
     "He told me," replied Louise, "that I had an uncle named Adam Rendrew,
from whom I shall inherit a trust fund of twenty-five thousand dollars. He
said
I had a brother - that's you, Archie - who was to receive the same amount."
     "He pumped that out of you!" snapped Archie. "You're a fool, sis. A crazy
little fool!"
     Louise didn't notice the comment. Staring straight ahead, she continued
her account:
     "Rahman Singh also told me that Uncle Adam has a stepson named John
Osman,
who lives at the house with us. He said that John would receive the rest of
the
estate, about two hundred thousand dollars, because of the faithful way in
which he has managed Uncle Adam's business affairs."
     Archie's attempted mustache was performing wigwags with its tiny tips.
This was going too deep into family affairs! But Archie was to hear more - and
worse.
     "Besides," declared Louise triumphantly, "Rahman Singh told me all about
our cousin, Dwight Kelden!"
     Traffic started a pile-up behind the roadster, when Archie jammed on the
brakes.
     "You know what Uncle Adam has always told us!" he exclaimed. "We're never
to mention Dwight's name to anyone!"
     "But I didn't mention it -"
     "You must have! Listen: if Dwight ever found out that Uncle Adam swindled
his father, years ago, there'd be a lawsuit that would take every nickel that
Uncle Adam has got. If -"
     Honking horns interrupted. Starting the car, Archie continued with
incoherent mutters, which ended only when Louise assured him that Rahman Singh
had said nothing about the money. He had merely stated, so Louise said, that
her cousin, Dwight Kelden, lived in California.
     The car pulled up in front of a basement doorway flanked by
heavy-curtained windows. Louise alighted, and was admitted by a dark-skinned
servant in Hindu attire.
     Archie drove away, intending to be back in half an hour. He didn't care
about the dusk and heavy traffic. He just wanted to be on the move, so that he
could mutter as much as he pleased without having people stop and stare at
him.


     CONDUCTED by the servant, Louise went through a shabby anteroom, across a
larger room where chairs were set in rows in front of a platform. She reached
a
corner door, hung with frayed velvet curtains. The door opened, revealing a
bearded man with glittering eyes, who wore a Hindu costume complete to turban.
     "Enter the sanctum, Miss Dreller," said Rahman Singh, in a rich, deep
tone. "The crystal foretold your arrival. We shall consult it further."
     As they sat at a table centered by a crystal ball, Louise produced a
letter from her handbag. It bore an air-mail stamp and was postmarked San
Diego.
     "It came this morning," said the girl. "From Dwight. I wrote him, as you
suggested. Of course, I didn't mention any of those family matters that you
learned from the crystal. But -"
     She paused. Rahman Singh was drawing the envelope across his forehead. It
pressed the band that marked the lower border of his turban. A liquid that
Louise did not notice was sponged against the face of the envelope.
     Lowering the letter toward the crystal ball, Rahman Singh was able to
read
the message, for the liquid had rendered his side of the envelope transparent.
Laying the envelope aside, he stared at the crystal.
     "I see a journey," declared the Hindu, "to the south - to Mexico. Dwight
Kelden will be gone for two weeks."
     "Oh, marvelous!" exclaimed Louise. "That's exactly what he told me in the
letter!"
     She was reaching for the letter, but the Hindu's hand stopped hers. The
envelope was not yet dry; he had to fill in more time.
     "I see a dark-haired woman -"
     Louise interrupted with an exclamation; then laughed.
     "It must be a Mexican senorita," she decided, "but I thought for a moment
that it might be Helene Graymond. She's the girl who comes to our house and
works as secretary for John Osman. She met Dwight when he was East, a year
ago,
but I suppose that by this time she has forgotten him."
      Soon afterward, Rahman Singh completed his study of the crystal and
returned the letter to Louise. He reminded her that there was to be a special
seance at eight-thirty that evening.
      "I'm so sorry!" exclaimed Louise. "I won't be able to come. I'm going to
a
party."
      "With your brother?"
      "No," returned Louise. "This is the night when he and his friends play
poker at the house. Why, you should be able to see all that, Rahman Singh!"
      They had reached the anteroom; the Hindu gave an apologetic bow, showing
a
white-toothed smile from the black beard that adorned his darkish face.
      "Without the crystal," he accented, gesturing back toward his sanctum, "I
am helpless. But with the crystal - ah! - you have seen my power to learn
all."
      Louise was still nodding when the servant ushered her out to the street,
Rahman Singh returning to the inner premises. The girl looked at her watch,
noticed that it was not yet six o'clock, which meant that she would have to
wait awhile before Archie returned.


     DURING the seven minutes that she stood outside the darkened doorway,
Louise became vaguely conscious of a stir from a passageway beyond a
neighboring house. Staring, she thought that she saw a sliding patch of
blackness. It faded as she watched, and Louise, from then on, was gazing in
the
wrong direction.
     The shape had flitted along the wall beside her, to merge with deep
darkness. Eyes were watching from the gloom, when Archie's car pulled up.
Hovering closely, the unseen observer heard Archie say:
     "Listen, sis, if that fake Hindu is throwing one of his shindigs tonight,
you're not going."
     "There will be a seance tonight," returned Louise, icily, "but it happens
that I accepted an invitation to a party at the Witherspoons' apartment, and
am
going there instead."
     Archie seemed satisfied, when they drove away. So did The Shadow, as he
emerged from darkness. Keeping clear of the doorway, where Rahman Singh's
servant might be on watch, The Shadow chose a rapid course along the gloomy
street.
     Later, The Shadow arrived in his own sanctum, a room with shrouded walls
that spoke of actual mystery. Compared to the headquarters of The Shadow, the
tawdry parlor that Rahman Singh termed a sanctum was a pitiful sham.
     The Shadow's sanctum was hidden away in an old building in the heart of
New York City.
     Plucking earphones from the wall, The Shadow spoke to his contact man,
Burbank, and gave him certain instructions that were due to end the false
career of the self-styled Hindu, Rahman Singh. Then came a whispered laugh,
eerie and prophetic in its tone.
     Apparently The Shadow, through methods of his own, was quite conversant
with circumstances that surrounded Adam Rendrew, and his various relations.
The
Shadow was to prove a figure in those affairs, as much as either Silk Elredge
or
Rahman Singh.
     Just how those two fitted into the picture, only The Shadow knew; but
from
his findings, he knew that crime would soon be due. How soon it would strike
was
evidenced when he inscribed in ink the single word: "Tomorrow."
     The written word faded from the paper, as was the way with all The
Shadow's secret writing; for he wrote with disappearing ink. Tomorrow, The
Shadow would be prepared to battle coming crime!


    CHAPTER II

    MURDER IN ADVANCE

     AT night, the Rendrew mansion looked very much like a morgue. Standing on
a side street in Manhattan, it loomed above other forgotten residences, as if
proud of the fact that it had dominated the neighborhood for more than fifty
years.
     The mansion's only rival was the house next door, but that structure had
long ago fallen into decay. Separated from the Rendrew mansion by an inner
courtyard, the next-door house showed lines of windows that had been boarded
up
for the past ten years.
     The interior of the Rendrew house was anything but cheerful. The rooms
were large, but gloomy; the hallways seemed like caverns. The only place that
bore a modern touch was the ground-floor room that had been converted into an
office.
     A girl was seated there, staring reflectively at the wall. She was Helene
Graymond, the secretary whose name Louise had mentioned to Rahman Singh.
Usually, Helene left the house at five o'clock and did not return until the
next day.
     Tonight, she had remembered some important accounts and had come back
here
on her own. She had finished her work, and the silence of the old house had
stirred her recollections of those who lived in the place. Never had Helene
encountered a more curious menage than the Rendrew household.
     Of course, old Adam Rendrew was the cause. He was a crabby old tyrant,
whose meanness forced others to adopt protective measures. About the only
person who could handle him at all was his stepson, John Osman.
     Middle-aged and methodical, Osman handled Rendrew's affairs to
perfection;
in fact, had pulled them out of serious difficulties.
     The old man had overinvested in real estate, which he had been unable to
sell. To offset that, Osman had become a rental agent, with his office here in
the old house, and was making the properties show a profit. Whenever he could
manage it, Osman went to his club for dinner, as he had done this evening, for
he disliked the smugness that he had to show in order to please old Rendrew.
     Archie Dreller had developed into a whiny weakling, through living with
his uncle. He was always trying to please the old man, so that he would not
lose the trust fund that Rendrew had promised him. Archie's one refuge was a
room that he called his den, which was in the basement underneath the kitchen.
     There, once a week, Archie brought in friends for a poker game, a
practice
which his uncle tolerated because the den was so remote. This evening,
Archie's
pals had been going through the hall on tiptoe, until they had all assembled.
     Louise had always managed to offset Rendrew's tyranny by playing dumb.
When she went out evenings, she was supposed to be in by half past ten, and
the
side door was left unlocked until that time. Old Rendrew never checked to find
out if Louise did return by ten thirty.
     He assumed that should Louise ever arrive home late and find the door
locked; she would become a wandering, shelterless creature, who would return
the next day broken by the cruel world.
     New York, however, had changed a lot since Uncle Adam's day. Louise had
many friends, and if she couldn't get home by half past ten, she simply stayed
out all night. In fact, she had sometimes dropped into Helene's apartment
along
around three o'clock in the morning, to sleep there until noon.
      There was another member of the Rendrew household. He was Froy, the old
servant, who moved about like a human cat and had probably moved into the
house
along with the original furniture. Froy, more than any one, seemed to have
been
completely shaped by the influence of old Adam Rendrew.
      In the two years that she had worked for John Osman, Helene had met only
one person that she really liked. That person was Dwight Kelden, a nephew of
Adam Rendrew, who had visited the house a year ago. After staying two nights,
Dwight had gone to a hotel, but he had called Helene from there; and she had
seen him often while he remained in New York.
      For some reason, Dwight's name was seldom mentioned by his relatives.
What
the mystery was, Helene had never been able to learn - not even from Dwight,
who
never seemed to take the matter seriously. Nevertheless, it was a problem to
which Helene gave much thought and hoped some day to find an answer.


     FROM the hallway came a sound that ended Helene's reverie. It was the
chiming of the big clock; Helene counted the strokes that followed it. There
were nine, and the hour presaged an event that had never varied on any of the
nights that Helene had remained here.
     Slow, draggy footsteps approached. They were shuddery as they echoed
through the old mansion; but the paces simply meant that old Adam Rendrew was
on his way to bed, as he always did punctually at nine o'clock. He based his
habits on a never-changing schedule that might have been actuated by the
mechanism of the old clock in the hall.
     Outside the office door, the footsteps stopped.
     That had never happened before. Suddenly, Helene had the reason. This was
the first time that she had ever worked late without Osman being in the
office.
That must have aroused either Rendrew's curiosity or suspicion. Turning toward
the door, Helene saw the old man bristling from the threshold.
     Against the hall's gloomy background, Adam Rendrew looked like a gray
monstrosity matched by the house itself. His eyes were gray, so were his bushy
eyebrows, that seemed miniatures of his shocky hair. Even his withery face was
gray; down past his thin nose, a chin tapered beneath the points of his
wing-tip collar.
     Helene was meeting the stare of tyrannical eyes that had never before
seemed to notice her. From deep in his throat, Rendrew croaked:
     "Why are you here?"
     Remembering how Osman met such challenges, Helene used the same system; a
methodical manner of reply.
     "I had work to finish," she declared, "so I came here."
     Rendrew's lips curled a smile of doubt, produced by a forward thrust of
his chin.
     "I heard John say he would not need you," asserted the old man. "He told
you he was having dinner at the club."
     Helene replied coolly that she had not remembered the extra work until
she
was having her own dinner. Swinging to the typewriter table, she began to
gather
typed sheets and arrange them. At moments, she turned in Rendrew's direction
and
was conscious that he had remained to stare.
     It wasn't surprising that the old man should give the girl close
scrutiny.
His gray eyes saw a rounded face that had every claim to beauty. Brown eyes
shone beneath brows that had a penciled curve. Helene's nose was one of
sculptured fineness, above lips that were delicate, yet firm. Clearly outlined
against Helene's dark hair, that face was completed by a perfect chin, that
showed determination in its thrust.
     That challenge was the sort that old Rendrew would accept from no one. He
lingered, seeking a pretext that would enable him to prove the girl at fault
merely because of her presence.
     "I heard no ring at the front door," he creaked suddenly, "nor did I hear
Froy admit anyone."
     "I happened to remember that it was Froy's night off," returned Helene,
"so I came in by the side door."
     "Who granted you that privilege?"
     "Mr. Osman. You may ask him to-morrow.
     The direct reply settled Rendrew for another three minutes. Then he found
a chance to issue a command that Helene would have to obey.
     "Froy always returns by ten thirty," reminded Rendrew, harshly. "When he
does, he will lock that side door. Be sure that you leave before that time!"


    OBLIGINGLY, Helene nodded. Satisfied that he had scored a triumph, the
old
man moved from the doorway and started toward the stairs. It had been a long
strain for him, postponing bedtime for a full ten minutes. Helene decided that
Louise would enjoy hearing that, but probably wouldn't believe it.
     Smiling as she gathered up the papers, Helene hit upon the humorous
thought that those ten minutes might be regarded as the most important period
in the life of Adam Rendrew. She was to remember that later, but from another
viewpoint.
     Footsteps were dwindling up the stairs. They halted, as if the old man
had
paused to listen for some sound. Helene could picture Rendrew starting a
downward sneak; then the footsteps sounded again, traveling higher.
     There was a second pause, and Helene, tense, was startled by the most
amazing sound that she had ever heard. It was lower than Rendrew's paces and
sounded like an echo to the old man's footfalls!
     Then Rendrew's gait was a climb no longer. He was moving along the second
floor. But the echoes still were climbing in uncanny fashion. Helene was
gripped by an unreal horror which seemed to filter in through the walls of the
old mansion. Then, in a flash, she placed those ghostly footfalls.
     They weren't echoes. They came from the side stairs beyond the office
partition. Those steps were the route that led from the side door that was
left
unlocked for Louise.
     Someone was sneaking up that other stairway, but Helene couldn't place
who
it might be. It certainly wasn't Osman; he always stayed late at the club. It
couldn't be Archie; he was busy, at poker, in the den. As for Louise, she was
at a party, which meant she wouldn't be home at all.
     Nor Froy. If he had stayed in the kitchen, as he often did on nights off,
he might be going upstairs; but Froy, the velvet-footed, never made a sound
anywhere he went about this house.
     The echoes ended. Whoever the nocturnal visitor, he had reached the top
of
his stairway, Helene listened tensely; as if in answer to her own emotion, the
girl heard other sounds.
     First, a voice. Not Rendrew's, for the tone was deep. Beyond that, Helene
could not identify it, because the long halls produced a hollow effect. It
might be anyone except Rendrew, which was proven when Helene heard a croaky,
incoherent voice reply. That must be Rendrew's.
     The heavy voice was repeated; the croak followed it. Stepping out of the
office, Helene moved toward the front stairway. Still she couldn't catch the
conversation, until Rendrew's voice took a higher pitch.
     "Get out of here!" The croak had become a wild cackle. "Get out, I tell
you, before -"
     The other voice drowned Rendrew's words, but, like the old man's tone, it
was forced. No longer heavy, the intruder's speech was savage in its hoarse
response:
     "Stop! Stand where you are, or -"
     A gunshot sounded.
     The report was muffled; but its intervention was so startling that Helene
stood frozen. Then, oddly, she was jarred back to her senses by another shock.
     First, she heard a man's mad scramble somewhere in the upstairs hallway;
then another gun burst, this time a loud report that must have come from the
hall itself. With it, there was a sudden tinkle, the shattering of a window
pane, probably in Rendrew's room.
     Despite herself, Helene screamed. The shriek that she gave was probably
louder and more harrowing than any of the preceding sounds, though she didn't
realize it. Then, amid the echoes of her piercing cry, the girl heard a clang
close by.
     It was the old clock, chiming the quarter hour. Its four-note melody
seemed a knell, tolling an end to the career of old Adam Rendrew!


    CHAPTER III

    MURDER'S CLUES

      MURDER had struck in advance of the time when The Shadow had expected
crime to begin. Though Helene Graymond knew nothing of the black-cloaked
investigator and his conjectures, she recognized intuitively that death had
occurred on the floor above.
      Heavy footsteps were pounding down the side stairway. The invader was
seeking exit. Her natural bravery returning, Helene dashed along a hall toward
the kitchen, intending to cut through and head off the murderer.
      She saw the little passage, the side door straight ahead. A single light
was glowing, as it always did, as a beacon for the wayward Louise. Then, as
the
man plunged suddenly from the side stairs, Helene was bowled over by another
person who was also intent to cut off the intruder's escape.
      It was Froy. The old servant had not gone out on his night off, had been
in the kitchen. Hearing Helene's scream, he had come to give aid. The girl saw
Froy lock with the invader; together, they reeled out through the side door
the
intruder had opened.
      Froy was taller than his adversary; that was all that Helene observed,
except that the other man was wearing a tan overcoat and a light-gray hat.
      For a moment, the two were lost in darkness; then Froy came sprawling in
through the doorway, sent there by a well-directed punch. Coming from hands
and
knees, Helene was passed by a surge of men, who had arrived just in time to
see
Froy's fall. The newcomers were Archie and his fellow poker players. Froy had
called to them down the basement stairs.
      The shirt-sleeved band took up the chase. Outside the door, Helene saw
them pursue the fugitive through a tiny alleyway that led to the rear street.
They were yapping like hounds, with Archie at the rear of the throng; but
their
prey outdistanced them. From the rear street, Helene heard the whine of a
departing motor.
      A curious sensation seized the girl. She had wanted to stop that unknown
fugitive, but she couldn't suppress an instinctive sympathy toward the hunted.
She was almost glad that he was safely away. Then, biting her lips at thought
of such disloyalty, she turned to help Froy, who was groggily coming to his
feet.
      "You heard the shots?" she questioned.
      Froy gave a puzzled squint; then licked his pinched lips. His voice was
croakish, like Rendrew's, but with a servile touch.
      "I heard no shots, Miss Graymond," he replied. "Nothing but your scream.
How many shots were there, and where were they from?"
      "Two shots," informed Helene. "From upstairs."
      The poker players were back, this time with Archie in the lead. Catching
what Helene had said, Archie gave one of his twitchy smiles, then suggested
that they go upstairs and see what had happened.
      They took the side stairs. At the top, they looked into a small room that
Rendrew called his study and beyond which lay his bedroom. Both rooms were
dark.
      Froy found a lamp near the door, but it didn't come on when he pressed
the
switch. Archie found a wall switch and produced a glare of lights from the
ceiling.
      Directly in the center of the study lay Adam Rendrew. He was turned half
on his side, with his face twisted upward. The bristly look had left his
features; instead, they had a gruesome gape, intensified by the goggly bulge
of
his glazed eyes.
      His knees were doubled, his shoulders huddled; but his back was arched,
as
if it had been poked forward by a sharp jolt against his spine. Rendrew, in
fact, had received just such a spinal thrust - from a bullet.
      Darkness hadn't saved him from that first murderous shot. A hideous
splotch of crimson dyed the gray cloth of his coat. Considering his whole back
as a target, the bullet had reached the pin-point center of a bull's-eye.
      Across the room were high, built-in bookshelves with their lines of
regularly arranged volumes. In a far corner was Rendrew's writing desk, beside
the door that led into his bedroom. Straight opposite the doorway from the
hall, where everyone stood, was a shattered window, the one cracked by the
second shot.
      Helene drew the others from the threshold. Archie retired willingly, but
Froy remained to stare. On his face, Helene saw a faint smile, as though the
servant welcomed Rendrew's death in the manner a slave would be pleased by
release from long bondage. Sharply, Helene brought back the servant's drab
expression by her command:
      "Froy! Go down to the office, call Mr. Osman and tell him what has
happened. Ask him to summon the police."


     WITHIN a quarter hour, there were many new visitors in the Rendrew
mansion. Chief among them was a stocky man, swarthy of complexion, stolid in
expression, who introduced himself as Police Inspector Cardona. Standing in
the
study doorway, Joe Cardona cast an expert eye upon the scene.
     Here was a squarish room, entered from a rear corner, for it ran
frontward
in the house. Starting from the shattered window, Cardona let his gaze rove to
the right. He noted the high bookcases, with their lines of volumes all in
even
arrangement. His eye reached the writing desk near the front corner.
     With a sudden stride past Rendrew's body, Cardona reached the desk. On it
he saw a daily calendar, turned to the correct date, which happened to be
Tuesday, the tenth. That calendar leaf was torn; its lower section was missing
just below the date title.
     Maybe Rendrew hadn't torn that sheet. Possibly the murderer had.
Inspector
Joe Cardona did not leap to conclusions. Instead, he poked about in a
wastebasket near the desk, found the bit of paper that he wanted.
     It was slightly crumpled, so he smoothed it, touching only the edges, and
checked it by the torn leaf on the calendar. The edges fitted.
     The bit of paper bore handwriting which Cardona decided must be
Rendrew's,
judging from samples on the desk. Its writing was penciled, and stated:

                           Expect Dwight Kelden tonight.

     Placing the paper with the calendar, Cardona opened the desk drawer. He
found a revolver, loaded but unfired, with a permit made out to Adam Rendrew.
The gun was properly registered; that point covered, Cardona turned around and
pictured how the crime had been committed.
     Someone had probably accosted Rendrew in the hall. The invader had
displayed a gun, to support some threat. Rendrew had scrambled into the
darkened study, perhaps to get his own gun from the desk. That had given the
murderer an obvious opportunity to shoot the old man in the back.
     Springing back into the hall, the killer had fired another shot from
there, getting the window that time. He had heard Helene's scream and fled.
That reconstruction made Cardona decide that Rendrew, and not the killer, must
have torn the half sheet from the desk calendar.
     Pacing across the room, Cardona came to the unlighted floor lamp. He
observed that the cord was plugging into the wall socket, and as he stooped he
found a bit of cloth just past the lamp.
     It was an eyeglass wiper, that bore the printed advertisement:

                                 WEEKER & SONS
                                 OPTOMETRISTS
                                NEW YORK BOSTON

      Adding that to the exhibits, Cardona went down to the first-floor office,
where detectives were in charge of the witnesses, who had already given their
first testimony. They consisted of Helene, Froy, Archie and the poker players.
      With the group was John Osman, who had arrived from his club. He was
short, pudgy, and baldish, a man of about fifty. His large forehead, stubby
nose, and bulgy chin gave him a profile like the inside of a crescent moon.
      In Cardona's experience, men with that type of profile were usually
serious-minded and methodical. The analysis fitted Osman, for he had brought
his attorney with him from the club.
      None of the witnesses could be regarded as suspects. There were too many
of them, and their stories fitted too well. Helene Graymond had given a very
accurate description of what she had heard, even to the point of an exact time
element.
      The clock had been striking nine when Rendrew stopped at the office door.
After his talk with her, he had gone upstairs; she had heard the other
footsteps follow. Then the voices; the shots - the first muffed, the second
louder, accompanied by the window smash. Her scream, at the moment of the
murderer's mad dash, had been echoed by the clock's chime of quarter past
nine.
      Froy's story supported Helene's, for the servant had heard her scream and
had met her dashing to the side door after the fleeing invader. His claim that
he had shouted to the poker players, was supported by Archie and the others.
     ONLY one flaw seemed likely: Froy's claim that he had not heard the
shots.
Cardona tested that by going into the kitchen, while a detective fired two
blanks in the second-floor hall. Froy was right; the shots couldn't have been
heard there.
     But when Helene, from the front hallway, obligingly supplied a scream,
Cardona heard it very plainly. Sounds in the old house carried easily along
one
level, but not from floor to floor.
     Asserting that fact when he returned to the office, Cardona was rather
surprised when Osman remarked stiffly:
     "It seems odd to me, inspector, that those shots were not heard in the
basement."
     "They weren't heard in the kitchen," argued Cardona. "How could they be
heard a floor below?"
     "Because of the hot-air pipes. This house used to have a system of
registers, before we installed radiators."
     Cardona noted that the office wall had a squarish bulge between its
windows, a peculiarity that he had noted in other rooms. Tapping the wall, he
discovered that it was hollow, with the register papered over.
     "Some of the upstairs registers are not covered," declared Osman. "They
are behind bureaus, bookcases, other furniture. Yet I should think that they
would carry sound."
     Mutters were coming from Archie and the poker players, who did not like
this doubting of their testimony. It was Archie who became their spokesman.
     "The furnace is at the front of the cellar," he declared. "The poker den
is at the back. Besides, those old pipes have been closed off. Go take a look,
inspector."
     Cardona went down to the cellar and found that Archie's statement was
correct. The pipe ends had metal caps that looked like box lids. Though the
squarish pipes measured only a foot and a half across, Cardona managed to bump
his head against one that followed the low ceiling; and when he returned to
the
office, he decided to waste no more time with secondary details.
     "About this fellow who got away," said Cardona to Archie. "You say he
jumped into a cab that was waiting in the back street?"
     "Right," agreed Archie, "but it reached the corner before we could yell
after it. We couldn't spot the license number."
     The other poker players nodded their corroboration. Cardona mused a few
moments, then said:
     "You've testified that you didn't get a look at the man's face. But tell
me, Dreller - do you think he could have been somebody that you knew?"
     "I don't think so."
     "All right. Tell me then, who is Dwight Kelden?"
     Archie's response was a stare featured by wide-mouthed astonishment.
Fortunately, Cardona was too busy watching him to observe Helene. The girl's
face, at that moment, revealed an expression of horror. It was John Osman who
answered the question; in his blunt style.
     "Dwight Kelden," he declared, "is a nephew of Adam Rendrew, and he lives
in San Diego."
     Cardona swung about, took in both Helene and Froy with his gaze. He asked
them if the killer could have been Dwight. By that time, the girl had steadied
enough to declare that she did not know; and Froy made the same reply.
     Taking Osman as the best person to question, Cardona asked if Dwight wore
glasses. Osman did not remember; this time, it was Froy who volunteered a
reply.
     "Mr. Kelden had reading glasses, sir," said the servant. "He left them
here, at the house, the time he was East a year ago."
     Cardona produced the exhibits from the death room. The calendar with its
torn-off sheet was proof that Rendrew had expected a visit from Dwight. The
eyeglass wiper could easily have fallen from the killer's pocket when the man
pulled his gun.
     "'I'll check on the optometrist," assured Cardona. "When I find out that
Kelden was in town -"
     "He couldn't have been," interrupted Helene. "Louise received a letter
from him this morning, and it came from California, by air mail!"
     Helene didn't mention another letter that she, herself, had received -
one
that might have proven very damaging to Dwight Kelden. The news of Louise's
letter, however, was a surprise to both Osman and Archie, and it brought a
prompt response from Cardona.
     "Who's Louise?" demanded, the inspector.
     "My sister," answered Archie. "She's at a party, over at Madge
Witherspoon's apartment. Call her up, inspector. She'll talk, if she hasn't
had
too many cocktails."


      HELENE supplied the phone number. Cardona managed to get Louise on the
wire; but he couldn't make much sense from what the blonde told him. He turned
to Archie.
      "Say!" exclaimed Cardona. "Is this sister of yours dizzy? She talks in
circles! She got a letter, but she won't say who sent it. She keeps saying
that
her lips are sealed; that all is known only to those who know all."
      "Tell her," suggested Archie, "that Rahman Singh knows all. Say that it
is
his will that she should reveal whatever she knows."
      Observing that Archie was serious, Cardona tried that formula, with
prompt
results. Louise poured so much conversation into the receiver, that Cardona
finally hung it up. He told detectives to take charge during his absence;
then,
using the telephone again, he called headquarters to arrange for a flying
squad
to meet him.
      "Your sister handed me an earful," Cardona told Archie, "once I got her
started on Rahman Singh. He's some crystal gazer, who claims he's a Hindu and
who's told her everything from the name of her great-grandfather's tomcat to
her own hip measurements."
      "Did she show him Dwight's letter?"
      "She says she did," returned Cardona, "and then she says she didn't.
Which
means she did. I know the way those fakirs work, getting information out of
people and handing it back to them. If there's one person outside this house
who knows what was going on inside, it's Rahman Singh. I hope he does know
all,
like your sister says. Because whatever Rahman Singh knows, I'll know by the
time I'm through with him!"
      Twenty seconds later, the slam of the front door denoted the departure of
Inspector Joe Cardona, bound on his flying journey to the realm of Rahman
Singh.


     CHAPTER IV

     THE GHOST GRABBERS

     IN his quest for a murderer, it never occurred to Joe Cardona that Rahman
Singh might already be under the surveillance of the law. Such, however,
happened to be the case. Ever since half past eight, when the Hindu had begun
his scheduled seance, certain persons in his audience had been giving him
unusual notice.
     One was a reporter named Clyde Burke, who handled assignments for a
tabloid newspaper, the New York Classic. Clyde, it chanced, was also an agent
of The Shadow, and was here under orders received from Burbank. For some
reason, which Clyde had not asked Burbank to tell him, The Shadow had decided
to put Rahman Singh out of business.
     The simplest way to do it was to have Clyde sell the idea to the city
editor of the Classic and let the newspaper take the credit for exposing the
Hindu as a fraud. The city editor had liked the suggestion, and, as a result,
Clyde had shown up at the precinct police station and lodged the proper
complaint.
     With two plain-clothes men and a policewoman, Clyde was at present in
Rahman Singh's seance room, the place with the platform and the chairs. All
four had paid a fifty-cent admission fee, and were posing as ordinary members
of a small audience until the chance for a raid looked ripe.
     For an hour and a half, Rahman Singh had been lecturing the audience and
answering questions, promising that ghosts would be forthcoming later. Clyde
and the detectives were soon agreed that it would be best to wait until the
Hindu produced the spooks.
     Unwittingly, Rahman Singh was doing something else. He was building
himself an alibi against a murder charge. Whatever might come later, there
would be four witnesses - and reliable ones - who would testify that Rahman
Singh had been in his own seance room between nine and quarter past.
     Meanwhile, the detectives present were blissfully ignorant of the fact
that their superior, Inspector Cardona, wanted Rahman Singh for questioning in
the recent death of Adam Rendrew. Like Clyde, they were hoping that the Hindu
would turn down the lights and let the ghosts gambol.
     Rahman Singh was a good actor; that much, Clyde Burke would concede. But
he wasn't convinced that the fellow was a Hindu. The beard, though it fitted
well, could easily be a fake; and between it and the turban, there wasn't much
of Rahman Singh's face to be seen. Given the same outfit, Clyde would have
been
willing to bet money that he could fool his own city editor with the disguise.
     True, Rahman Singh's cheeks and forehead were dark; but ordinary grease
paint would suffice for that. In fact, Clyde soon decided that when the others
were snatching ghosts, he would make a grab for the Hindu's beard, as a more
certain trophy.


    THE spook act was due at last. Rahman Singh had stepped to a corner of
the
room, where a curtain stretched at an angle to form an improvised cabinet. He
called upon persons from the audience to tie him in a chair. One of the
detectives was about to join the committee, when Clyde motioned him back.
     The easier the knots, the sooner the spirits would arrive - in Clyde's
opinion. The reporter was pleased when he saw that the faithful believers had
done a third-rate job. They didn't want to hurt their beloved mahatma, or
afflict him with the fear that they had become skeptics.
     When they stepped out from the corner and drew the curtain shut, Clyde
set
three minutes as about the time that Rahman Singh would require to get loose.
     Light faded when Rahman Singh's servant pressed the switch. Only a red
lamp remained, glowing from the floor beside the cabinet. Clyde knew that red
bulbs were popular with spirit mediums; their glow was almost as satisfactory
as darkness, when it came to hiding gadgets.
     All was silent in the seance room. From somewhere distant came the faint
tone of a siren, that the believers took for the sigh of a wandering spirit.
Then muffled raps came from the street door. Those, in turn, might have been
sound effects produced by Rahman Singh in his cabinet. Not even Clyde and the
detectives realized that other raiders were arriving here.
      The ghosts were coming from the cabinet; that fact made all others
dwindle. Round, moonish faces glowed above the sitters, bringing amazed gasps
from them. One woman was proclaiming that she recognized her departed
grandmother, when Clyde voiced the signal:
      "Grab!"
      The detectives and the policewoman snatched for fat-faced spooks and
found
them. The moonish spirits squeaked when grabbed; their curious faces contorted
in the gloom. Believers were scattering, overturning chairs in the confusion.
Hysterical screams completed the bedlam.
      Clyde had reached the cabinet first, but couldn't find Rahman Singh, let
alone the fellow's beard. As the detectives arrived, he yelled for one of them
to press the light switch. At that moment, the door came sweeping inward,
bowling Rahman Singh's servant with it. The man who saw the light switch and
used it, was Inspector Joe Cardona.
      Rahman Singh's disciples were cluttered along the walls amid a pile of
chairs. A few of the more ardent were near the cabinet, clawing at Clyde and
the other raiders who, in turn, were retaining their trophies of the ghost
hunt. Cardona leveled a revolver as he heard a sharp report. Then he grinned.
      One of the ex-ghosts had exploded. The things were oval-shaped balloons,
daubed with yellowish paint that glowed in darkness. The luminous paint
accounted for the faces; the squeaks, had been the rubber twisting and the air
escaping under the squeezes of the hands that had grabbed the spooks.
      Cardona faced the cabinet with his gun. From inside, he could hear a
faint
whir that sounded like heavy breathing. He ordered Rahman Singh to come out;
the
curtain stirred, but no one appeared. Cardona yanked the drapery aside.
      The cabinet was empty, except for an up-tilted electric fan whose
spinning
blades provided the whir. Rahman Singh had placed it there to waft the fake
spirits out into the seance room. But whatever his limitations when it came to
materializing spooks, he had certainly staged an effective vanish of his own.


      YANKING a drapery from the wall, Cardona saw a door that opened into
Rahman Singh's sanctum, where the vanished mahatma had plugged the electric
fan
cord into a wall socket. Packing in a hurry, the Hindu hadn't waited to
disconnect the fan.
      An open door showed the rear route that he had taken; and in saving his
crystal ball and other props, Rahman Singh had lost all the time that he could
spare. Cardona and the others could hear the slam of an outer door at the rear
of the basement.
      They took up the chase and reached a rear courtyard. There, Cardona
shouted for everyone to spread and cover the entire area. Running to the next
street, the inspector blew a whistle to bring in a hastily posted police
cordon.
      A police car suddenly wheeled the corner, flung its spotlight on a
doorway
across the street. The glare revealed a black-cloaked figure, which Clyde
Burke
recognized as The Shadow. A moment later, men were flocking in that direction,
shouting for the fugitive to halt.
      Helplessly, Clyde sought some way to end that misguided chase. He had
expected The Shadow near at hand, to cut off the escape of Rahman Singh. Ill
luck had intervened, putting The Shadow in a tight spot, instead of the wanted
Hindu.
      The searchlight was sweeping wide, but The Shadow had managed to escape
its path; which meant that he could have chosen one path only: an opening
through the block across the way.
      Converging police had spied that route and were heading for it, firing
revolvers. Clyde's yells were unheeded, drowned by the bark of guns. He was
pointing elsewhere, trying to divert the trail; but no one noticed him.
      Joe Cardona had glimpsed The Shadow, knowing the cloaked fighter's
antagonism toward crime, the inspector formed the same conclusion as Clyde.
Cardona used more drastic efforts to halt the wild chase. Leaping into the
search-light's path, he waved his arms in an attempt to call the pursuers
back.
      Once recognized, Cardona managed to call off the police bloodhounds; but
by the time that he was leading them back to hunt for Rahman Singh, the task
was useless. The police had left a space as ample as a prairie around the tiny
alleys where the Hindu had last been traced.
      The Shadow was safely away; but so was Rahman Singh. Whatever the bearded
Hindu's part in present crime, only the future would reveal. Perhaps Rahman
Singh would consult the crystal, to learn what his own fate would be.
      If so, Clyde, hoped that the slippery Hindu would be confronted by a
vision of The Shadow!


     CHAPTER V

     AFTER MIDNIGHT

     SOON after midnight, Inspector Joe Cardona arrived at the exclusive
Cobalt
Club to confer with Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, who had just come back
from Philadelphia, where he had delivered a lecture on crime prevention.
     Weston was a man of military bearing, brisk even to the points of his
short-clipped mustache. He liked the Cobalt Club because it was swanky and
because the grillroom not only served good food, but made an excellent meeting
place, where no one would be disturbed.
     Cardona, however, was not surprised to find that Weston had a friend with
him. The friend was one that the commissioner frequently called into
conference
when he happened to be around. He was Lamont Cranston, the millionaire who had
introduced Ralph Weston to the Cobalt Club.
     Seated across the table, Cranston gave Cardona a leisurely greeting that
contrasted with Weston's brisk style. Nevertheless, Cranston's apparent
indolence did not deceive Joe Cardona. The inspector knew that the brain
behind
Cranston's masklike face was keen; that the commissioner's friend could fling
aside his idle manner and move to swift action, when occasion called.
     Cardona spread his report sheets, gave a summary of the Rendrew murder.
He
had gone back to the mansion after the futile hunt for Rahman Singh. There, he
had checked over various details and had asked some important questions. For
once, Inspector Joe Cardona felt that he had his finger upon the very
pulsebeat
of crime.
     One by one, Cardona checked the known persons who had either been
connected with Adam Rendrew, or mingled in the dead man's affairs.
     "We'll start with John Osman," announced Cardona. "He's Rendrew's
stepson.
Been managing the old man's business for years, and making a good job of it.
Building up for the future, of course, because he's to get the bulk of the
estate; but Osman had nothing to worry about, because he was the only person
that Rendrew trusted.
     "Anyway, Osman was at a class-reunion dinner at his club from six o'clock
this evening. The first he heard of Rendrew's death was when they phoned him
from the house. He called headquarters, then came to the house with his
attorney, who had been at the dinner with him. That covers Osman."
     Commissioner Weston nodded prompt agreement. Cardona covered two more
cases in his next verbal stride.
     "The Drellers," he declared - "Rendrew's nephew and niece. I don't like
the looks of that boy Archie, but he's got an ironclad alibi. He was playing
poker with four friends down in the cardroom. All four come from good
families,
and their testimony fits. We know that Archie couldn't have sneaked upstairs
and
taken a shot at old Rendrew, even if he'd wanted to.
     "As for Louise, the niece" - Cardona gave a hopeless shrug - "she's as
dizzy as they make them! Some friends brought her home while I was back at the
house, and she talked the same as she had over the telephone."
     Cardona ran his finger down the list, came to two other names. He passed
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 eyeglass 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 glasses 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?"
     "Nobody 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 assembled 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
passed 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 passage 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 passing 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. Passing
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 tall
form 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
passenger:
     "Drive past the Rendrew house; then to the Hotel Northley. Full speed!"
     The cab spurted away; Moe, his head cocked toward the half-opened
partition, 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 passenger
in a taxicab, soon after the murder had occurred.
      Anticipating 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 hell-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 passage 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 Shadow
regarded 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 title 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 considerable
clatter 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
anticipated.
     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 the
black-cloaked figure brought a hoarse 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 glass
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 massed 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 circumstances. 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. Prone 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!


    CHAPTER VII

    BROKEN BATTLE

      THE first roar of battle had produced a sudden change of events in
Helene's apartment. Startled by the bark of guns, Helene had stiffened exactly
as she had at Rendrew's. This time, the thing that brought back her senses was
the sudden pound of Markham, dashing toward the bedroom.
      Helene was gripped by the alarming thought that when the detective
sergeant found her, half clad and without shoes, on the wrong side of the
room,
he would guess that she had been sneaking about the place, hiding evidence
unfavorable to Dwight Kelden.
      But Markham hadn't been paying attention to any of the sounds from the
bedroom. Nor was he interested in Helene's attire or lack of it. He was
anxious
for the girl's safety, and when he saw her starting from the corner, he swept
her back with his arm.
     "Stay there!" he ordered. "Lay low!" By the time Markham had turned off
the bedroom lights, stumbled to a window and raised it, the gunfire had
lulled.
     Looking out, the detective sergeant saw three men at a lighted window on
the other side of the garage roof, and one floor up.
     They were the mobbies who had just lost their grip on The Shadow, who, in
turn, was at that moment groggily trying to prop himself up from the garage
roof. Markham heard shouts, saw guns flash from spots along the roof.
     Deliberately, Markham fired at every gun that spurted. With Helene's
bedroom as a fort, he held a definite advantage over the men in the open.
Though his shots didn't have the accuracy of The Shadow's, they made gunmen
scurry for cover.
     His gun empty, Markham crouched to reload. By that time, matters had
changed in the hotel window across the way. The gunners there had left The
Shadow to the mobsters on the roof, in order to spot Markham's fire. But they
hadn't started to shoot, because some of them were engaged in a scuffle with a
young man who had suddenly flung himself among them, namely, Dwight Kelden.
     On his feet, Dwight had met a blocking crook at the doorway and was using
his fists in hope of escape. Shoved into the arms of other foemen, he wouldn't
have lasted long, except for Markham. Again at Helene's window, Markham saw
gun
hands swinging over in the hotel room and opened fire at the brawlers.
     His first bullet made men duck. Dwight staggered through the doorway, off
to new flight, while his enemies dropped beneath their window ledge and jabbed
shots back to Markham. His fire ceased suddenly, and they guessed why. Again
Markham's gun was empty.
     One sharpshooter popped above his window ledge, thrust a gun forward to
take quick aim. He was speedier than Markham, that crook; he was leaning from
his window, finger on trigger, before the detective sergeant realized that his
own gun was empty.
     Perhaps the intended shot would have found Markham, had the thug ever
fired it; but he never managed to complete the opportunity.
     A tongue of flame knifed straight upward beside the hotel wall. The crook
jolted from the blast of the big automatic. Pitching forward, he sprawled
headlong to the roof beside The Shadow.
     The cloaked fighter was in the fray again!


     MARKHAM and his empty gun were forgotten. More crooks were at the window,
warily aiming for The Shadow, as were others on the fringes of the roof. They
couldn't believe that their invincible foe had fully recuperated, and their
guess was right. The timely shot in Markham's behalf had been a huge effort
for
The Shadow.
     He was crawling toward the rear of the roof in a sideward, crablike
fashion.
     One arm was caving under him, his opposite leg was dragging. What lights
he saw were blurred; but The Shadow could still pick out gun flashes. Every
spurt, from the window or below, jarred him into a prompt response.
     The Shadow was demonstrating the important margin of superiority that had
so often enabled him to outmatch heavy odds. He had trained himself to gauge
distance, as well as direction, when he aimed for gun spurts in the darkness.
Mere guesswork, the sort that crooks were using, wouldn't do. These thugs were
learning that lesson with bullets.
     Out from the wall, The Shadow was closer than the gunmen along the roof
supposed. They were firing for twenty yards, instead of only ten, and their
bullets were carrying high. Those at the window of Dwight's room had the
range,
but they were visible targets and The Shadow clipped them before they could
tug
their triggers.
      Then Markham was back into the fray, his one error being a shot that he
fired at The Shadow, along with the other gunners. Fortunately that bullet,
like most of Markham's, was wide of its hurried target.
      By that time, the crooks had enough. They were thinking that The Shadow's
fire was sufficient, when Markham joined in. Coupled to that, they heard the
whine of approaching sirens.
      Markham yanked out a police whistle and blew it, giving the impression
that police reserves had already arrived. The lights went out in the hotel
room; men began to drop from the edges of the garage roof.
      During the lull, Helene approached the apartment window. She saw Markham
squinting into the darkness. He pointed to a dragging shape partly outlined
against a dull glow between two buildings.
      "There's somebody." Markham's tone seemed doubtful. "Who he is, I don't
know. Only I'm thinking, maybe, it might be -"
      Helene held her breath, spreading her hands against her chest. She hadn't
seen Dwight over in the hotel room, for she hadn't been near her own window
until this moment. But she was afraid that Markham might mention Dwight by
name.
      "It could be The Shadow!"
      Markham added that with such emphasis, that Helene exclaimed:
      "The Shadow? Who is he?"
      "He's a fellow who gives crooks what they ought to get," spoke Markham.
"From the way that mob thinned out, I'll bet The Shadow was on deck. I
couldn't
have been picking them off that quick. I'd like to go out on the roof and look
around -"
      Pounding on the apartment door interrupted. Deciding that the police had
arrived, Markham caught Helene's arm and started her out into the living room.
He heard a gasped protest, but didn't understand it until they reached the
light.
      "I'm sorry, Miss Graymond!" Markham gulped the apology. "I didn't realize
that you hadn't finished getting dressed."
      "I'll have a dress on in a jiffy," smiled Helene. "You can open the
door."
      She slid into the bedroom, slipped her dress over her shoulders and was
smoothing it when Markham and the others came through. There were four
officers
in uniforms, and all had flashlights to begin the search along the roof. From
the window, Markham said that Helene could turn on the light if she wanted; so
she did.
      Putting on her shoes, the girl started to complete her packing. Every
item
that she added to the bag buried the letters and the photograph deeper from
sight, a fact that made Helene smile, despite the new ordeal that she had just
undergone.
      Oddly, Helene found herself wondering about someone other than Dwight,
who, after all, might not have been anywhere around. She remembered Markham's
mention of a fighter called The Shadow, and hoped that he had fared well in
the
battle.
      Glancing from the window, Helene saw flashlights over in the direction
that Markham had pointed out; but apparently no one was there.
      The girl decided that The Shadow had gone; and in that assumption, she
was
right. But The Shadow had not traveled far.


     WITH battle won, The Shadow had reached the roof edge. There, he had
attempted a drop to the ground. Two stories from a hanging drop was usually a
simple matter for The Shadow, but on this occasion he trusted too much upon
his
injured arm.
     He was lying by the wall of the garage, when officers flicked their
flash-lights downward. Thanks to the overhanging roof and a short crawl by The
Shadow, they did not see the figure in black.
     Sheer instinct must have enabled The Shadow to perform that creep, after
his drop had crumpled him. He remained quite motionless, long after the
flashlight rays had passed him.
     Men were creeping in from behind the Hotel Northley. Whether friends or
foemen, The Shadow was in no condition to receive them. Fortunately, they were
friends: Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye. Lifting their chief, the faithful agents
carried him out to the next street.
     The departure was fraught with danger of discovery. More police were in
the neighborhood. Two officers, stumbling through an opening, were almost upon
The Shadow's agents when they stopped. The cops had come upon a crippled thug.
While they were dragging him away, Cliff and Hawkeye completed their own
journey.
     Moe's waiting cab whipped to life the moment that the agents and their
burden were aboard. It shot right from the sight of a patrolman who was
searching parked cars along the way.
     A whistle gave the alarm; a police car whined in from a neighboring
block.
But Moe knew these streets, like all others in Manhattan.
     He twisted the cab from that vicinity as if it had been a mechanical eel.
Discarding darkness, Moe chose a lighted avenue and mixed the cab into traffic
far from the scene of the brief pursuit.
     When Cliff spoke through the partition, telling him to drive to Doctor
Rupert Sayre's, Moe nodded. Sayre was a doctor who aided The Shadow when he
received injuries in his eternal battle against crime.
     The Shadow's plans were ended for the night. Later, perhaps, he would
again seek the trail of Dwight Kelden - who had managed a new flight during
The
Shadow's costly triumph. Doubly costly, that victory, since it meant that The
Shadow would have to postpone another mission: his visit to the Rendrew house.
     In that old mansion lay certain clues that were the answer to strange
murder; clues that might be gone when The Shadow finally arrived to seek them!


     CHAPTER VIII

     THE THIRD CLUE

      BY noon the next day, Inspector Cardona had news that pleased him.
Matters
were going very well in the Rendrew case. Dwight Kelden had been tagged as
Suspect No. 1, and his picture gazed from the front page of every newspaper in
town.
      That particular photo showed Kelden in a ten-gallon hat, which - though
Cardona didn't realize it - hid the suspect's most conspicuous mark of
identification, his somewhat curly hair. Louise Dreller had provided the
photograph; it was one that her cousin had sent her, to kid her with the
notion
that the West was still very wild and woolly.
      Wires to San Diego had proven that Dwight Kelden was absent from that
city
and that no one knew precisely where he had gone. The news supported Cardona's
theory that Rendrew's missing nephew was probably in New York.
      As for the gunfight held between the Hotel Northley and the Winslow Arms,
the ace inspector held a hunch that Dwight had been concerned in it. He argued
that it might have been an effort to kidnap Helene Graymond, the law's most
important witness.
      Captured mobbies claimed that they had been working with a leader who had
not survived the battle; that he was the only one who could have told who
hired
them, or what their ultimate purpose was.
      That was logical enough, and Cardona had an idea that the man in back of
it all was a guest at the Northley, named David Armage. The fight had begun in
Armage's room, 416, and from descriptions of the guest, the name sounded like
an alias, used by Dwight Kelden.
      Positive that Dwight must be the murderer, Cardona had forgotten about
Rahman Singh. Besides, another man had come into the scene - a taxi driver
named Tim Dogan. The fellow reported at a precinct station, admitted that he
had picked up a passenger in back of the Rendrew house. He was brought to
headquarters, where Cardona interviewed him.
      Dogan looked honest, but somewhat wary. He kept fidgeting with the
battered cap that constituted his sole item of uniform. He wanted to think
before he spoke, and Cardona let him. Experience had shown the inspector that
fake testimony was usually given glibly, rather than with forethought of the
sort that Dogan used.


     "IT was this way," said Dogan. "I was grabbin' chow at the Busy Bee, see?
That's where I go regular - all the boys up there know me."
     Cardona inquired where the Busy Bee was.
     "It's a hashhouse on the street in back of Rendrew's," declared Dogan.
"About a block away. I'm the only hackie that eats there, and every now an'
then I gets a call."
     "From that neighborhood?"
     "Yeah, usually." Dogan paused, then blurted the admission: "I'd gotten
'em
from the Rendrew house before."
     "Who made the calls?"
     "Generally a dame. The same one that wanted the cab, I guess. She's a
blonde. Dizzy looking."
     That fitted Louise. Cardona put a prompt question: "Did the girl call you
last night?"
     "No," replied Dogan. "It was a guy called. He talked kind of quick. Says
to stop out in back of the old house at nine o'clock and wait there. I figures
the guy is callin' for the blonde."
     "At what time was the call made?"
     "Along about six o'clock. I always hit the Busy Bee ahead of six, so I
can
scoff before the rush starts for the restaurants an' the night clubs."
     Cardona calculated. If Dwight Kelden had come East by plane, he would
have
arrived long in advance of six o'clock. As for the quick voice that Dogan
mentioned, it certainly didn't fit Archie's whiny tone or Froy's precise sort
of speech.
     They were the only persons who could have called from the house, except
Adam Rendrew or John Osman. Neither of them would have arranged for a cab to
meet Louise. Besides, Rendrew's voice had been cackly, according to Helene,
and
Osman's speech was deliberate, almost a drawl.
     "It's been six months that I've hung around the Busy Bee," continued
Dogan, "an' this is the first time a guy calls from the house; instead of the
dame -"
     "He said he was calling from the house?"
     "No. He just says to be there at nine. So I shows up, an' it's the guy
himself that pops out, after I've been waitin' about fifteen minutes. He's in
a
hurry, an' he hops aboard as soon as he sees me, sayin' to get to Times Square
quick.
     "By the time we're around the corner, he's flashin' ten bucks in one mitt
an' a gat in the other, askin' me which I want. I figure a sawbuck is better
than a slug, so I takes him where he wants to go."
     Dogan ended his story abruptly. Cardona eyed him in poker-faced style.
Finally, the cabby added:
     "That's all, inspector. Until I takes a gander at the newspapers this
mornin' an' find out you're lookin' for the guy."
     Cardona pointed to Dwight's photograph on a front page, and asked:
     "Was that the man?"
     "It mighta been," admitted Dogan. "Only I didn't see him very close. I
was
busy drivin' fast, like he wanted. He wasn't wearin' that hat, though."
     Cardona gave a grunt. Leaning back in his chair, he considered what other
information Dogan might supply. Finally, he questioned:
     "Where's your cab?"
     "Outside here. They had me drive it down from the precinct station."
     "We'll have a look inside it."
     They went outside, and Cardona began to probe the cab's interior. When he
lifted the rear seat, something slipped down from the side of it. Cardona saw
the flutter of paper and reached for the trophy.
     A moment later, he was holding a third clue that pointed to Dwight
Kelden,
an item quite as important as the torn calendar and the eyeglass wiper.
     Joe Cardona had found an airplane timetable, scheduling the flights of
skyliners between California and New York.


     LATER that afternoon, Inspector Cardona arrived at the police
commissioner's office and laid the new clue on the commissioner's desk,
together with the old ones.
     "Kelden left a trail a mile wide!" asserted Cardona. "He overlooked the
date slip that Rendrew wrote and, later, tore from the calendar. I've checked
on the eyeglass wiper and found out that Kelden bought his reading glasses
from
Weeker & Sons, when he was in New York a year ago.
     "This timetable is something else he dropped from his pocket, or decided
to get rid of, while he was in the cab. Kelden knew we'd be after him, and he
wasn't going to carry anything that might show he'd just come from
California."
     Commissioner Weston showed a pleased smile. Cardona took it for
commendation, which it was; but the smile meant more. Weston had a surprise of
his own, for Cardona.
     "Very good, inspector," declared the commissioner. "You have built up an
excellent case against Dwight Kelden! He is the man we want, as your evidence
proves. What you now need, is to learn his motive."
     "Maybe John Osman can help us with that -"
     "Osman has helped us," interrupted Weston, widening his smile. "I
summoned
him here at noon. He arrived with his attorney, and I insisted upon knowing
facts about Dwight Kelden."
     "Osman gave them?"
     "Yes." Weston brought some papers from the desk drawer. "He and the
lawyer
had been going through Rendrew's papers this morning. They brought to light
certain matters which even Osman had not fully understood."
     Spreading the papers, Weston referred to them, tapping first one, then
another. When he had roused Cardona's curiosity to a high pitch, he proceeded.
      "Some years ago," declared the commissioner, "Adam Rendrew had dealings
with Kelden's father. Money was involved, and it wound up in Rendrew's hands,
to the extent of one hundred thousand dollars."
      "You mean Rendrew pulled a swindle?"
      "Exactly! Fortunately for him, Kelden's father died before he had a
chance
to begin a lawsuit. He could also have brought criminal charges against
Rendrew."
      Weston pushed the papers across the desk.
      "There's most of it," he declared. "Documents which old Rendrew kept,
even
though they incriminated himself."
      "Why was he fool enough to keep them?"
      "Rendrew was a rogue, not a fool. He was afraid that Dwight Kelden would
learn enough to bring action against him. Rendrew probably wanted to show
these
documents to his lawyer, so the latter would know exactly what he was up
against."
      Weston's analysis was a sound one. Among the papers were certain letters
that Rendrew had written to the elder Kelden. How they had come into Rendrew's
possession was a mystery, but they explained why Dwight could certainly not
have known all the details of the swindle.
      "I have learned," declared the commissioner, "that Dwight Kelden is quite
wealthy. Still, he could have wanted more money, or revenge; perhaps both. He
could easily have guessed that his case would be strengthened by evidence that
only Rendrew held."
      "So he came East to get it!"
      "Exactly!" nodded Weston. "And the only method was to threaten Rendrew
into passing over the papers. That, in turn, meant the use of force, or a gun.
Kelden chose the latter as the more effective measure. Meeting with
resistance,
he killed Rendrew."
      "Which means he took his revenge," added Cardona. "He saw his chance, so
he didn't wait. That explains everything, commissioner. All I've got to do" -
Joe's tone was grim - "is find Dwight Kelden."


     WESTON gestured his hand toward the door. It was more than a token that
the interview was ended. Weston was ordering Cardona to resume the hunt.
Cardona turned toward the door, but before he reached there, Weston stopped
him
with the question:
     "You heard about Cranston?"
     Cardona shook his head.
     "He cracked up that tiny plane of his," informed the commissioner, "while
he was trying a take-off from his front lawn, this morning. He was banged up a
bit, but not seriously. He's dining with me this evening, but his physician
has
insisted that he start home at ten o'clock."
     Without knowing it, Commissioner Weston had announced a fact that was of
prime importance. His statement told that The Shadow was ready to resume his
investigation of the Rendrew murder, after learning, while dining with the
police commissioner, just how much the law had covered during the interim.
     Moreover, Weston had declared the exact time at which The Shadow's new
campaign would start. That time would coincide with Cranston's departure from
the Cobalt Club.
     The Shadow's moves would begin at ten o'clock tonight.
     CHAPTER IX

     THE SHADOW'S CLUES

      THE mansion clock was striking ten. Seated at the typewriter desk in
Osman's office, Helene Graymond shuddered. Those chimes, the strokes that
followed them, reminded her too much of death as delivered to Adam Rendrew.
      Helene was sorry that she had agreed to remain in the mansion; but it was
too late to change her decision. The more readily she accepted suggestions,
the
less would people question her. So far, Helene had given honest replies to
every
quiz; but there were certain questions that she would certainly dread, if ever
they were put.
      Thus Helene, by her pretended willingness to be helpful, was alone in the
house, except for Froy. She was typing long lists of assets belonging to the
Rendrew estate, a task which Osman had said was highly important and should be
done as early as possible.
      Osman had taken a huge batch of papers over to his attorney's apartment.
Archie and Louise, not at all disturbed by their uncle's recent death, had
gone
their separate ways, seeking good times among friends.
      Detectives still guarded the house, watching from outside. There was
nothing to fear, so long as they were around. But that did not lessen Helene's
misery. She was nourishing worries that were fast becoming unbearable. From
her
desk, she could count the ticks of the big clock, until she realized that she
could no longer stand the strain.
      Hurrying upstairs to her room, Helene fought back the sobs that fairly
pressed her tight-set lips. She locked the door and drew the window shades,
letting her breath come in sharp, quick sighs.
      She wanted to get into bed before she broke down and wept; but her eyes
were already blurred with tears and her fingers were trembling increasingly,
as
she undressed. Silken garments were like lead, as they slipped from the girl's
unsteady hands.
      As she finished her struggling task, Helene's emotion gave away
completely. She sank on the bed, buried her face in the pillows to drown the
unrestrained sobs that quivered her slender body. Her weeping seemed beyond
control, and she no longer cared. Perhaps that was why the convulsive sobs
gradually lessened.
      At last, Helene lifted her head from the tear-drenched pillows, dried her
eyes with her fingertips, and gave a profound sigh.
      The cry had helped her, bringing more relief than she had expected.
Though
she was undressed, Helene no longer wanted to go to bed; still, she wasn't
equal
to putting on all her clothes again and going back to work in the office.
      Finally striking upon a compromise, Helene attired herself in a nightie,
a
silk kimono, and a pair of comfortable slippers. Unlocking the door, she
looked
about for Froy; seeing no sign of the drab-faced servant, Helene went down to
the office.
      She was gathering papers, intending to take them up to her room, where
she
could work in comfort and seclusion, when she noticed curious darkness slid
across the desk. Against the woodwork, Helene saw the outline of a hawkish
silhouette. Turning, with a gasp, she looked into the eyes of a weird visitor.
      All that Helene saw were eyes - and blackness. The stranger was cloaked:
a
slouch hat hid his face, but the down-turned brim could not conceal the burn
of
those all-searching eyes. Recollections flashed to Helene's mind; despite her
bewilderment, she exclaimed.
     "You are The Shadow!"
     A whispered laugh acknowledged the identity. Drawing a chair beside the
desk, The Shadow sat down. Silently, he waited for Helene to calm down.


      THE kimono-clad girl was very beautiful, yet quite unconscious of the
fact. While preparing for bed, she had let down her hair, and it formed a
billow of brown loveliness as it streamed across her shoulders. Raising a hand
that no longer trembled, Helene brushed stray locks from in front of her eyes
and smiled her wonderment.
      The Shadow had demonstrated the ability that Markham had described.
Somehow, the cloaked visitor had passed the outside detectives and had entered
by the side door, which was locked to-night, with its key in the possession of
Louise Dreller. Helene was further awed when The Shadow spoke:
      "Tell me all you know regarding Dwight Kelden."
      It was a command, not a question. Helene's lips tightened.
      "I must ask a question first," the girl asserted, firmly. "Tell me: do
you
believe that Dwight murdered Adam Rendrew?"
      "No more than you believe it!"
      The Shadow's prompt response won Helene's confidence completely. It
seemed, amazingly enough, to summarize her fears along with her doubts.
      Though she had tried to convince herself that Dwight was innocent of
crime, Helene had been overwhelmed at times by the magnitude of the evidence
against the man she loved. Torn by conflicting thoughts, Helene had longed to
meet someone in whom she could safely confide; someone who would thoroughly
understand.
      By his cryptic words, The Shadow had shown absolute recognition of
Helene's deepest qualms. He had expressed her own thoughts for her. Earnestly,
the girl began to pour out her story.
      Ever since Dwight's visit East, a year ago, she had corresponded with
him.
He had proposed marriage to Helene, and she had accepted. In his last letter,
which she had received only a few days ago, Dwight had promised to come East
very soon.
      Those letters, of course, had been mailed to Helene's apartment. Dwight's
letter to Louise had arrived here at the house, but it hadn't troubled Helene
because she knew that Dwight occasionally corresponded with his cousin.
      "Dwight didn't want Louise to know that he was coming East," concluded
Helene. "That's why he wrote her that he was going to Mexico. She might have
learned, somehow, that he was no longer in San Diego."
      "You have the letters that Dwight wrote to you."
      "Yes," nodded Helene, rising. "I can get them -"
      The Shadow had also risen; he was moving toward the door.
      "I shall be in the study," he announced. "Bring the letters there. Do not
worry about Froy. He is asleep."
      On the way upstairs, Helene realized that The Shadow must be familiar
with
the entire house, for Froy's room was on the third floor. She didn't realize
that The Shadow had read all of Inspector Cardona's reports and had seen a
floor plan of the mansion.
      The girl brought the letters to the study, Dwight's photo with them.
After
viewing the picture, The Shadow asked for Dwight's latest letter, and Helene
found it for him.
      Taking the other letters back to her bedroom, Helene returned to find The
Shadow viewing the exact spot where the dead body of Adam Rendrew had been
found.
      He turned toward the bookcase, noted that it was set against a thick
wall,
between the windows. As he turned again, his finger traced an imaginary line,
and finally pointed toward the floor lamp near the door to the hall. He told
Helene to turn the switch. She obeyed, and gasped when the light came on.
      "That bulb was burned out last night!"
      "So I have been told," returned The Shadow. "I am glad that you also
noted
the fact."
      "I can't imagine who replaced it with a new one -"


     HELENE halted her earnest statement, very abruptly. Again in the center
of
the room, The Shadow was moving his hand upward, as if measuring a man's
height.
     He pointed to bookshelf, where volumes formed a tight-packed row. He
pushed his finger forcibly between two books in the center, then pulled his
hand away, letting the books press together.
     Helene heard hidden lips utter a whispered laugh, a strange, uncanny tone
that somehow added to her confidence, though it brought a slight chill that
tingled her from head to foot.
     She saw The Shadow remove some books from the shelf, watched him probe
the
space with a tiny flashlight, its beam no larger than a dime. Then the books
were back in place again and The Shadow was running his finger along the
titles.
     He spoke in half sentences, that he let Helene complete.
     "These books are arranged alphabetically," said The Shadow, "therefore, I
take it that they have been listed -"
     "Several times," supplied Helene. "I have a copy of the latest list in my
desk."
     "Adam Rendrew was proud of this collection -"
     "Very! Especially the bindings."
     "He occasionally bought better copies to replace poor ones -"
     "Yes."
     "And the duplicates that he discarded -"
     "Are in the attic, except for some that he sold."
     They went down to Osman's office, where Helene produced the book list.
Duplicate volumes were noted on a separate sheet, and the girl supposed that
The Shadow, whatever his interest in the books, would propose a trip to the
attic.
     Instead, he shifted to another subject. He asked about the desk calendar
that Cardona had found in Rendrew's Study.
     "Mr. Rendrew always kept one," explained Helene. "He used those calendars
somewhat like a diary."
     "And the old ones -"
     Helene found them. They were buried deep in a corner closet beyond the
office safe. The Shadow stood beside her, while she knelt and dug for the
calendars.
     When she found the one of the previous year, The Shadow took it from her
grasp. Helene saw him flutter the pages with his thumb. Pausing after the
second riff, he declared:
     "Your first meeting with Dwight Kelden was on the twentieth of March,
last
year."
     "Why, yes!" exclaimed Helene. "How did you know?"
     The answer struck her suddenly. The Shadow must have found some evidence
of Dwight's brief visit to his uncle Adam the year before. That time, of
course, had been the occasion of Helene's first meeting with the nephew from
California.
     Returning the calendar, The Shadow told Helene to replace it with the
others. That done, he announced that he intended to visit the cellar, not the
attic. As it was getting late, he suggested that the girl listen from the
kitchen and inform him if anyone arrived home.
     Helene heard scraping sounds from the cellar while The Shadow was down
there. They were quite muffled and came from somewhere near the front, well
beyond the cardroom. When he had come back, by way of Archie's so-called den,
The Shadow seemed quite satisfied with his inspection of the cellar.
     Then came his most surprising statement.
     "One of your bedroom windows opens on the little courtyard," he told
Helene. "I want you to watch from there. Should you hear Froy move about, or
should anyone return, tap the window and hurry into bed. Otherwise, wait until
you see three blinks - red, green, and white - of my flashlight. After that,
you need watch no longer."


      WITH Helene on her way upstairs, The Shadow went out by the side door.
From her window, the girl saw the tiny flashlight cross the courtyard,
throwing
a steady beam, though occasionally the folds of a black cloak muffled it.
      Knowing that Louise might return and look in to see if she happened to be
awake, Helene discarded slippers and kimono, to be ready for a quick trip into
bed. She had left the door slightly ajar, so that she would surely hear anyone
who entered.
      The Shadow's light was probing below the wall of the house next door. For
several minutes Helene couldn't guess his purpose, until she realized that he
was directly opposite the window that faced the door of Rendrew's study.
      The Shadow was looking for the bullet that had broken the window as a
result of the wild, superfluous shot that had been fired after Rendrew's
death!
      Such search did not explain why The Shadow wanted the bullet in question.
At first, Helene felt that the hunt would prove a hopeless one; but as she
watched, she decided otherwise. The bullet must have dropped after it struck
the wall; the area where The Shadow was looking for it could not be very
large.
      Ten minutes had passed, when Helene heard a sound from the floor below;
then footsteps on the side stairs. She reached to tap the window; at that
instant, the flashlight licked up against the wall and delivered three short
blinks - red, green, and white. The Shadow's search was ended, making Helene's
signal unnecessary.
      Quickly, the girl reached the door and closed it. Scampering to the bed,
she was under the covers, except for her head and shoulders, when the door
opened. Louise stood there and softly spoke Helene's name. Receiving no
response, the blonde entered and approached the bed.
      By the light from the hallway, Louise observed that Helene was wearing
only her nightie and therefore assumed that she was asleep. Eyes tight shut,
Helene heard Louise tiptoe out into the hallway and close the door behind her.
      Then Helene Graymond was staring at the darkened ceiling. Wide awake, she
was wondering about Dwight Kelden and what this evening's events might mean to
him. She felt more hopeful regarding Dwight's innocence; still, she wasn't
sure.
      As sleep finally came upon her, Helene was convinced that one person,
alone, could solve the riddle of recent crime.
      That person was her new friend, The Shadow!
    CHAPTER X

    CRIME'S NEW ANGLES

    ALL the next morning, Helene Graymond tried to assure herself that she
had
helped The Shadow; but she didn't manage to convince herself. Just what value
The Shadow could have found from his clues, was something very speculative, in
Helene's opinion.
     The law, she learned from John Osman, had welded a new link against
Dwight. The chain now had three, Rendrew's torn calendar, the eyeglass wiper,
and an airplane schedule from the cab that had carried the murderer along in
his flight.
     The Shadow's clues were a last-year's calendar, a pair of books that he
had noted on the list, and a mashed bullet. He had taken neither the calendar
nor the books, and Helene could not even be sure that he had found the bullet.
So far as the girl knew, The Shadow's clues, if they had any value at all,
might clinch the case against Dwight Kelden, instead of helping him.
     Of all factors, the most encouraging was Helene's absolute confidence in
The Shadow's ability to gain results. She was sure that he had waged that gun
battle on the roof near her apartment. Moreover, The Shadow had learned one
fact that no one else had even guessed at; namely, that Helene was in love
with
Dwight.
     With all his questions, Joe Cardona had not found that out. Nor had John
Osman, in whose office Helene worked every day. Archie Dreller, with all his
shrewdness had not guessed the truth; nor had his sister Louise, who fancied
herself so clever. As for Froy, Helene was sure that the soft-footed servant
shared the same ignorance.
     Yet The Shadow, in his first meeting with Helene, had struck upon the
very
point that the girl had so successfully concealed from everyone else!
     There was a simple answer to that riddle. The Shadow knew that Dwight had
tried to signal Helene from the hotel room. His interpretation of Dwight's
presence was therefore at variance with the theory that the suspected murderer
had wanted to kidnap the star witness.
     Obviously, Dwight wanted to reach Helene, but hadn't risked a phone call;
which meant that he was afraid the girl had been unable to cover some secret
which they had in common.
     From that, The Shadow had readily conjectured the existence of a romance,
and had foreseen that Helene would be only too glad to aid anyone who might
hold an impartial attitude toward Dwight.
     Unfortunately, Helene had placed herself where it would be difficult for
Dwight again to seek her. She couldn't leave the Rendrew mansion for the
present, and Dwight would certainly think a long while before making a phone
call there, let alone a visit.
     Like the law, The Shadow would have to hunt blindly for Dwight, if he
wanted him; but there, the similarity ended.
     It happened that The Shadow was no longer anxious to find Dwight Kelden!
     That news would have astonished Helene, had she heard it; but, again, it
was a riddle with a simple answer. The Shadow intended to crack the case from
another angle. If that succeeded, Dwight would appear upon the scene of his
own
volition.
     Other persons had figured in the affairs of Adam Rendrew and the dead
man's relatives. With all suspicion centered upon Dwight, and the fact
proclaimed by the newspapers, those parties would soon behave less warily. The
Shadow was depending upon their moves to start new progress.
     THE soundness of The Shadow's policy was proven early in the afternoon,
when The Shadow lunched with Commissioner Weston. Gladdened when he learned
that his friend Cranston was suffering from his accident no more than he had
the previous night when they dined together, Weston was chatting about
airplanes, instead of crime, when Inspector Cardona dropped into the
grillroom.
     With him, Cardona brought the bullet that had been taken from Andrew's
body and commented upon its importance.
     "It's from a .38 revolver," stated Joe, "and if we ever find the gun that
fired it, there won't be any trouble identifying it. The slug stayed in good
condition, even if Rendrew didn't."
     Weston examined the bullet, passed it to Cranston, whose lips showed a
slight smile as he weighed the pellet in his hand. Then, before Weston could
ask if progress had been made in the search for Dwight, Cardona popped some
news that he hoped would divert the commissioner from the touchy subject.
     "Remember that fellow Rahman Singh?" asked Cardona. "He's in again! I
talked to a lot of his old customers and told them to keep me posted. Well,
he's been calling them up, only they don't know from where."
     "We are positive," declared Weston, "that Rahman Singh did not murder
Adam
Rendrew. Therefore, he is unimportant."
     "He may be more important than we think," persisted Cardona. "That Hindu
might have an idea where Kelden is hiding out. He won't get it from that
crystal of his, but he may remember a lot of things, if we question him right.
I'd like to find him."
     As Cardona hoped, Weston became enthusiastic over the possibility that
the
Hindu might be a lead to Dwight. He nodded approvingly, then questioned:
     "Has the Dreller girl heard from Rahman Singh?"
     "Not yet," replied Cardona. "But I bet she will, before very long. I've
been telling his other customers to say that we aren't going to bother him.
He's called some of them a second time, so he certainly has my message."
     "He's been using them as feelers" - Cardona, was emphatic - "and when he
thinks he's safe, he'll call the Dreller dame. Maybe he just wants to start
his
fortune-telling racket again, but there's a chance that he's got something up
the sleeve of his turban."
     "His turban," corrected Weston, "is the object that he wears upon his
head. You mean the sleeve of his tunic, inspector."
     Cardona gave a sheepish grin. He knew what a turban was, all right, but
Weston always liked a chance to correct somebody, so Cardona had given him
one.
Such digressions carried the conversation further from the subject that
Cardona
was trying to avoid: the futile hunt for Dwight Kelden.
     After lunch, while Cardona and Weston were still talking, The Shadow
excused himself and telephoned the Rendrew house. Froy answered; using
Cranston's tone, The Shadow asked for Louise Dreller.
     He introduced himself across the wire, and Louise gushed enthusiastically
when she learned that she was talking to the millionaire globe-trotter, Lamont
Cranston, who had been to India, Tibet, and all other hotbeds of Oriental
mysticism.
     "I have received an astral call," came Cranston's serious tone, "from the
presiding yogi in the Temple of Allahabad. His message is for Rahman Singh."
     "I understand!" exclaimed Louise. "But I don't know where Rahman Singh
is."
     "Your mind and his are in harmony. You will hear from him. When you do -"
     "Yes? Yes?"
     "Inform Rahman Singh that he must communicate with me at once, or the
yogi's message will never reach him!"
      LOUISE stayed in the house the rest of the afternoon, hoping to hear from
Rahman Singh. At half past five, just as Archie came in the front door, the
telephone bell rang. Louise pounced for it; stopping on the stairs, Archie
heard her exclaim:
      "Rahman Singh! It's you, at last!" Archie listened closely to Louise's
end
of the conversation. While she was hanging up the receiver, he hurried out the
front door. He called Silk Elredge from the nearest pay station, but required
several attempts, at brief intervals, before Silk finally answered.
      "The Hindu called Louise," said Archie. "She gave him some dizzy
message... Who from? From Lamont Cranston... You've heard of him, haven't
you?"
      Smoothly, Silk asked for details. Archie gave them.
      "It sounds goofy," he admitted, "but it's the sort of bunk that Louise
falls for... Maybe you're right; it might be Cranston's way of getting hold of
Rahman Singh... Sure, Silk! I'll keep you posted, if Louise gets any other
calls..."
      In his office, Silk Elredge sat drumming the desk, his eyes registering a
shrewd flicker, his straight lip set tight. Suddenly he nodded to himself,
arose and strode over to the door. As he pulled the barrier inward, Silk
stepped back.
      The passage was blocked by a stranger who was stepping toward the door,
his hand lifted, as if to rap against it. Before Silk could halt him, the man
strode across the threshold and closed the door behind him. Silk heard an oily
greeting, given with a peculiar accent:
      "You are Mr. Elredge?"
      Silk nodded. His narrowed eyes were staring at a darkish bearded face,
that he could identify with one man only: Rahman Singh. He thought at that
moment that the Hindu must have been outside the Rendrew house when Archie
left
it; then Silk realized that Rahman Singh could not have picked up the trail
that
soon.
      By his own testimony, Archie had left while Louise was still talking to
the Hindu. There had been an interval after that, but even if Rahman Singh had
come along and spotted Archie calling from the drugstore, that wouldn't
explain
the Hindu's presence here. Silk had been talking to Archie only five minutes
ago!
      Silk was deciding that the stranger couldn't be the Hindu mentioned by
Archie, when the bearded man announced:
      "My name is Rahman Singh."
      For a moment, Silk Dredge was inclined to credit the wonder of the Orient
whereby mystics could transport themselves from one location to another; but
that mood did not grip him very long. Silk figured that there would be a more
sensible explanation, and he knew the way to get it.
      Gesturing Rahman Singh to a chair, Silk sat down behind his desk and
reached for the telephone, while he purred:
      "I was just about to make an important call. You'll pardon me, Mr. Singh
-"
      "One moment!"
      The harshness of the Hindu's interruption caused the telephone to drop
from Silk's hand. Looking across the desk, the proprietor of the Club Cadiz
promptly wheeled his chair back and let his hands come to shoulder level.
      Rahman Singh, the trickster, wasn't the sort who could be tricked. From
beneath his overcoat he had produced an oversized revolver, that shone like
the
gold teeth which the Hindu's leering lips displayed.
     "I would prefer it, Mr. Elredge," chuckled Rahman Singh, "if we settled
our business before you made the call!"


     CHAPTER XI

     CARDS ON THE TABLE

     RAHMAN SINGH had looked into the future without the aid of a crystal
ball.
He had guessed why Silk Elredge was reaching for the telephone: to slip a
signal
to certain mobbies who served him. Silk made those calls craftily, when he
wanted to be rid of troublesome visitors.
      It seemed that Rahman Singh had either learned, or guessed, a great deal
about Silk's methods. With his gun drawn, the Hindu seemed quite confident. In
fact, he stretched his dark hand to the corner of the desk and laid the weapon
there.
      Silk's arms came down, then folded across his chest. The revolver was
just
close enough for Rahman Singh's use, should the visitor need it; just too far
away, in case Silk made a grab for it. Letting his smile fade, Rahman Singh
remarked soberly:
      "The gun is on the table. Why not lay our cards there, too?"
      "It suits me," decided Silk. "Let's have your showdown first. What's your
right name, Hindu?"
      "Rahman Singh," replied the bearded man, coolly. "I am not the only bona
fide Hindu in New York. As for these" - he gave a sweeping tug at his black
whiskers - "look!"
      The beard struck Silk as genuine, after that demonstration. As for his
visitor's nationality, Silk was remembering that New York had plenty of
Chinese
and others of Oriental origin, who talked plain English and behaved according
to
American custom.
      It wasn't odd that Rahman Singh should wear a turban and pose as a
mystic,
since many Orientals who ran curio shops garbed themselves in robes of their
native land.
      At present, Rahman Singh wasn't decked up for his act. He was wearing a
well-cut business suit, topped by a stylish overcoat, and his headgear was a
dark felt hat.
      "Suppose that we discuss our affairs," suggested Rahman Singh, "only so
far as the law is apt to interfere with them."
      "That's Jake," agreed Silk. "You're on the lam, and I'm not. So let's
hear
your troubles."
      "They are already known. Yours may be yet to come."
      "Yeah? What's the gag?"
      Rahman Singh stroked his beard; finally he gave a slow-worded reply to
Silk's question.
      "According to a young lady named Louise Dreller," he announced, "her
brother Archie has lost heavily in your gambling establishment. So heavily
that
he was forced to make very special arrangements in order to square himself."
      "What sort of arrangements."
      "Miss Dreller did not know. But I suspect" - long brown fingers were
plucking the black beard - "that they involved blackmail, with Adam Rendrew as
the man who was supposed to pay."
      Silk shifted forward. Rahman Singh clutched the gun. With a shrug, Silk
settled back and demanded:
     "How would anyone have shaken down old Rendrew?"
     "Very simply," returned Rahman Singh, in a cold, steady tone - "by
threatening to impart certain information to his nephew, Dwight Kelden; facts
regarding a swindle that Rendrew once managed."


      THE statement had a powerful effect upon Silk. So far, the inside
information had not reached the newspapers. It was obvious, therefore, that
Rahman Singh had gleaned facts from Louise; and that led to other conclusions.
      "Forget that heater," suggested Silk, referring to the gun. "I might as
well come out with it. That boob Dreller talked too much to his dizzy sister.
I'm lucky that they've both kept their faces buttoned while the cops are
around.
      "Anyway, Rendrew got croaked before the deal ever went through, so they
can't hand me a rap on that. They've pinned the murder on Kelden, which makes
me safe there, too. You've got it right, Singh. Archie owes me dough."
      The Hindu did not inquire as to the amount, so Silk decided to state it.
      "Close to three grand," said Silk. "I thought old Rendrew would be good
for it, until Archie swore he'd never come through. To square himself with me,
Archie gave me the lowdown on the Kelden matter. He said the old man would
turn
baby, if anybody threatened to give that out.
      "I told Archie to take a cruise so that while he was away, I could walk
in
on the old gent. I told Archie I'd make his uncle settle for ten grand, and go
fifty-fifty on the deal. But I was going after twenty. It looked worth it."
      Silk paused, gave a snap of his fingers to indicate the sudden vanish of
fifteen thousand dollars.
      "Kelden rubbed out Rendrew," he said, "and that was that. But why should
I
worry? Archie is due for an income, and I'll get my dough - the three grand -
in
time payments. I've got Archie's markers right here, if you want to see them."
      Rahman Singh hefted the revolver as Silk was reaching toward a desk
drawer. The gambler shrugged, and decided that the Hindu was taking his word
for it that the I O U's were there.
      "Your position," spoke Rahman Singh, "is better than mine. Louise Dreller
also has an income and will spend much of it with me, provided that I can
again
resume my business. However, that appears impossible."
      "How come?" asked Silk.
      "Today, I called Miss Dreller," declared the Hindu. "She said that a
gentleman named Lamont Cranston wished to see me. I happen to know that
Cranston is a very good friend of the police commissioner. Therefore, it may
mean a trap!"
      Silk was suddenly interested. He leaned his folded arms upon the desk.
      "Knowing that you might sympathize with my predicament," resumed Rahman
Singh, "I came here feeling that our mutual knowledge of certain facts would
make us lasting friends -"
      "Cut the boloney," interrupted Silk. "Archie told me about Cranston
calling Louise. Listen, Singh, you're in a racket, the same as I am. I didn't
croak Rendrew, but there's a guy I'm going to get. I'll let you in on it,
because I can use you."
      Rahman Singh looked troubled at the suggestion of murder, but Silk merely
smiled. He wasn't mystified any longer by the Hindu's visit here; the fellow
had simply started his trip as soon as he had finished his call to Louise. A
crook himself, Silk was confident that he could spot any of his own breed, and
Rahman Singh had the proper earmarks.
      "The guy I'm after," announced Silk, "is Lamont Cranston. That ought to
interest you, Rahman Singh."
     "It does. But not enough for murder -"
     "No?" Silk spoke the word with a long drawl. "Suppose I told you that
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow."


      A SHARP gleam flashed to the Hindu's eye, seemingly flickered there
between amazement and belief. Silk beckoned around the desk; Rahman Singh
arose, bringing his gun. He saw Silk point to the light bulb under the desk
edge.
      "That hooks with the phone booths outside," explained Silk. "They're
tapped, and whenever anybody makes a call this light comes on. I rigged it, in
case any big losers got sore upstairs and tried to call the cops while on the
way out.
      "This guy Cranston has been around here, but I wasn't very leery of him
until night before last. I'd seen him out there at a table; when the light
came
on, I figured he was making a phone call. I listened in, but the guy I heard
was
The Shadow!"
      Rahman Singh sucked in his breath with a long, deep hiss, then asked with
a gasp:
      "You're sure?"
      "Sure as shooting!" chuckled Silk. "Because there was some shooting
pretty
soon after that. The Shadow was going up to the Hotel Northley. I chased a mob
there ahead of him. He got out of that mess, though, because he was in the
open."
      Leaning back in his chair, Silk reached to the desk drawer; this time,
Rahman Singh did not deter him. Silk drew out some slips of paper, spread them
on the desk. Each was an I O U signed by Archie Dreller.
      "The Shadow probably saw these," said Silk. "He knows too much, that guy.
But he hasn't seen this" - the gambler produced a key - "because I only put it
there a half hour ago."
      "What is it for?" inquired Rahman Singh.
      "It's the key to an old hide-out," explained Silk, "where I'm going to
trap The Shadow. I know he's Cranston all right, because Cranston was gone
after The Shadow made that call. But you're the only guy I've told."
      "I've got another mob. Like the old outfit, they went to get The Shadow.
There's no use telling them he's Cranston, until they've grabbed him. Guns
aren't the way to trap The Shadow. I've thought of a couple of guys who might
be in that hide-out, ready to fox him; but you're the best bet yet!"
      The eyes of Rahman Singh displayed a far-away gleam, as though the Hindu
had caught a complete view of some future scene. The black beard wagged when
Silk's visitor nodded.
      "An excellent idea!" he approved. "Much better that I should be there,
expecting a friendly visit from Mr. Cranston, than to have some person whose
very name would rouse suspicion."
      "That's it," agreed Silk. "I'd thought of steering The Shadow there to
look for Kelden. Only, that wouldn't work. The Shadow probably thinks that
Kelden ran that mob two nights ago. He'd be looking for another battle."
      "If I called Cranston -"
      "He'd suspect nothing. He's asked you to call him. Invite him to the
joint. He'll come there."
      "Yes, he will come alone" - Rahman Singh's eyes still had their distant
gaze - "for the first visit. It will be" - again gold teeth gleamed from
leering lips - "Cranston's only visit!"
      Silk Elredge placed the key in the Hindu's brownish palm. He scribbled an
address on a slip of paper and added it to the key. Stepping from his desk, he
opened the door that swung with the filing cabinet.
     "Use this way going out," suggested Silk. "Go over to the joint and rig
it
up any way you want. If you need dough -"
     "I have money," interrupted the Hindu. "Yes, the place must be
presentable. Something like my former establishment."
     "There's two doors to the hide-out. The mob can move in whenever you say.
I won't tell them it's The Shadow, or anybody else, until after they've pulled
the snatch."
     Rahman Singh thrust out his hand, Silk gripped it. He could guess, from
the Hindu's gleaming smile, that a cunning brain was already at work; one
skilled in devising tricky stunts that could deceive the smartest minds. Silk
already had some ideas of his own, but decided to withhold them.
     "Frame it by tomorrow night," said Silk, "and slip me the lowdown as soon
as you're ready."
     With Rahman Singh gone through the secret exit, Silk Elredge returned to
his desk and chuckled. Yes, he and his new crony had laid their cards on the
table; and they both stood winners.
     The only loser from that showdown would be The Shadow!


     CHAPTER XII

     SILK GETS THE DOPE

      SEATED at his desk in headquarters, Inspector Joe Cardona wore an
expression as gloomy as the sky outside his window. Considering that the day
was overclouded and that dusk had already settled, Cardona's face was just
about as glum as it possible could be.
      Lights were already twinkling from Manhattan's hazy background. Noting
them, Cardona wished that he could see a glimmer in the personal fog that
surrounded him. About all that he was getting was sympathy from Detective
Sergeant Markham, who reminded Joe of a patient St. Bernard bringing a bottle
-
empty!
      Anyway, he could talk to Markham; that was a bit of comfort. Cardona
wanted to talk on a subject that he could handle thoroughly, when occasion
demanded. Cardona's theme concerned Police Commissioner Weston.
      "He's gone bullheaded again," gruffed the inspector, "like he always does
when things don't go the way he wants. Tells you to go right ahead, your own
way, then all of a sudden he yanks you on the carpet and yells like blazes
because you haven't gotten what he calls results. What a guy!"
      "Who?" asked Markham.
      "The commissioner!" stormed Cardona. "Do you think I've been talking
about
the superintendent of the zoo? Sorry, Markham" - Joe was mixing sarcasm with
his
apology - "I couldn't blame you if you made that mistake. We might as well be
monkeys and hyenas while Weston is in charge of us."
      From his desk, Cardona brought Louise's photograph of Dwight Kelden, made
a move to chuck it in the waste-basket, then returned it to the drawer.
      "The trouble with Kelden," snapped Cardona, "is that hat of his. Ever
since we sent out those 'wanted' notices, the whole force has been looking for
a cowboy. Instead, the guy's got curly hair. That's something nobody thought
to
tell me, until today."
      "That ought to help," put in Markham. "Maybe you'll find him quick."
      "Just what I said to the commissioner. His idea of 'quick' sounded like
ten minutes. He finally made it ten hours, which gives me until midnight."
      Pacing the little office, Cardona finally reached for his hat. He
grumbled
as he studied the murky sky, then said philosophically:
     "I might as well get used to bum weather. From the way the commissioner
talked, I'll be pounding a beat tomorrow. It wasn't reasonable, the way he
busted loose. I guess he's getting tired of lamb chops.
     "Maybe he wouldn't have acted up, if Cranston hadn't gone out to make
that
phone call of his. I should have taken my cue and ducked out then. Then I
wouldn't have been alone with Weston."
     A jangle interrupted further comments. Cardona told Markham to answer the
telephone and started out the door. He hadn't gone ten yards down the
corridor,
before he heard Markham bawling after him. When Joe returned, the detective
sergeant gulped:
     "It's The Shadow!"
     Cardona didn't believe it at first; but as he listened, he became
convinced. Those whispered words were inimitable, and as usual, they were
promising the unexpected. Though the voice did not mention the name of Dwight
Kelden, it stated that the Rendrew case would be cracked before midnight,
provided Cardona co-operated.
     Since The Shadow's time limit coincided with Weston's ultimatum, Cardona
gruffed that he would agree to anything.
     "Remain in your office," was The Shadow's final whisper, "until you
receive later word."
     A trailing laugh followed, ending abruptly with the click of the
receiver.
Cardona stood holding a dead telephone, staring as if he still heard distant
echoes of that eerie mirth.


     ELSEWHERE, the laugh lasted longer. It reached completion in the
black-walled sanctum - The Shadow's own headquarters. Beneath a bluish light,
gloved hands were at work - a curious sight, below that glow. Usually, The
Shadow's hands were ungloved while he attended to such details.
     Two books were lying on the table; also an automatic. Stepping away from
the light, The Shadow carried those objects with him. There was silence; then
the sudden report of the gun.
     The sound was a roar amid those curtained walls; its echoes still
reverberated when The Shadow swung back to the table and began to wrap the
books in a package. To them, he added a small box padded like an egg crate. It
contained a darkish electric-light bulb.
     Next came a coil of wire, tipped by a device that looked something like a
vest-pocket camera. Just before he closed the package, The Shadow slipped a
sealed envelope inside it. The bundle went beneath his cloak; then, reaching
across the table, The Shadow picked up a tiny object, which he decided to
retain separately.
     The object was a bullet, flattened at the head but unmashed at the base.
It was distinguishable as a revolver bullet of .32 caliber. The Shadow was
inserting the metal slug into a tiny pocket of his cloak, when he reached his
other hand for the light switch.
     The bluish glow extinguished, the sanctum throbbed with the quiver of a
departing laugh; then silence joined pitch-darkness.
     Night had actually settled, when a taxicab wheeled from an avenue and
swung to a stop at a corner near the Rendrew house. Helene Graymond came from
a
drugstore, carrying some bundles. She stopped at a mail box to post a batch of
letters: That brought her almost beside the cab.
     The Shadow's shape had emerged from the half-opened cab door, but no one
farther away than Helene could have seen the cloaked figure against the cab's
darkened interior. In fact, Helene could not distinguish the outline of the
form beside her.
     But she felt the light clutch of expected fingers upon her arm; heard
low-whispered instructions, to which she gave an understanding nod.
     A moving hand added another bundle to those that Helene carried. The
cloaked form merged with the gloom inside the cab. The vehicle was twinkling
its taillight, a block distant, while Helene was still walking toward the
house.
     When Froy opened the front door in answer to her ring, Helene went
upstairs to her room. She left some of the packages on a table near the
stairs,
but took the rest with her. Among those that she retained was the package that
she had received from The Shadow.
     There had been nothing suspicious about Helene's trip. By this time, it
was deemed safe for her to leave the mansion, and detectives were no longer
guarding the portals. It would have been a mistake, though, for her to have
stayed away too long. Helene had simply gone to mail some letters for Osman
and
to make a few purchases at the drugstore.
     In her bedroom, Helene opened the package. She read the note that came
with it; it gave brief instructions regarding the items in the package. With
them, Helene was to place another object, the old calendar, that was in the
office closet.
     All the exhibits were to remain in her room, until The Shadow came for
them; unless, because of some emergency, it would be necessary for Helene to
place them at spots about the house, where they were eventually to be found.
In
that case, Helene would be informed by a telephone call; otherwise, The Shadow
would attend to the needed details.
     In the message, Helene also noted a number that she could call in case of
trouble. The note told her to remember it, and it was well that she did, for
the writing soon began to fade from The Shadow's message.
     All that was quite mysterious, much more so than the telephone call that
Helene had received an hour ago, telling her when to be at the drugstore.


    ABOUT the time when Helene was returning downstairs, Silk Elredge left
his
office at the Club Cadiz, bound on a visit to Rahman Singh, from whom he had
heard occasionally during the day.
     The Hindu was at the hide-out, and from his chortles across the
telephone,
he had evidently cooked up some cute scheme to waylay Lamont Cranston,
otherwise
The Shadow.
     Silk was going to "look over the lay," as he termed it, and realizing
that
he might be under observation from The Shadow, he adopted precautions to keep
a
derby hat down over his forehead and went out by the special route.
     Sneaking through an alleyway behind the Club Cadiz, he entered a parked
coupe. As he drove past the next corner, Silk blinked the lights, received a
response from a parked sedan. The other car followed Silk while he took a
roundabout course. Finally, when he pulled into a side street, the sedan
rolled
past and blinked another signal.
     That car contained Silk's cover-up crew. They were telling him that he
hadn't been followed, and they were now on their way to line up the rest of
the
mob. After that, they would post themselves at a given spot near the hide-out
where Silk was to meet with Rahman Singh.
     Reaching a shabby block, Silk parked the coupe and entered a dingy house.
Up a flight of uncarpeted stairs, he followed a short hallway to a stout door,
where he rapped. Rahman Singh admitted him, and Silk looked around with
approval.
      The Hindu had made over a poorly furnished room into a place that had
somewhat of an Oriental glamour. Draperies hung from the walls, and though
they
were cheap, they gave tone. There was a table in a corner, covered with a
fancy
cloth; surmounting it was a pedestal topped by the crystal ball that Rahman
Singh used in the forecasts that he gave the gullible.
      From another table, Rahman Singh brought a bottle of whiskey and poured
himself a drink. Corking the bottle, he handed it to Silk and reached for
another glass. Silk supplied himself with a drink, while Rahman Sing waited.
When the Hindu lifted his glass Silk did the same, while Rahman Singh
chuckled:
      "Here's to The Shadow!"
      Down went the drinks. Wiping his beard, Rahman Singh put both glasses
with
the bottle, then lifted a turban from the side table. He was wearing a tuxedo
and the Oriental headgear made an excellent contrast, reminding Silk of
pictures that he had seen showing Hindu rajahs on tour of America.
      Silk, however, had something more important to talk about.
      "The mob's outside," he told Rahman Singh, "ready to get posted when I
give the high sign. What about Cranston?"
      "He is waiting at his club," mouthed Rahman Sing. "I have talked to him
by
telephone, but have not yet told him where he is to come to meet me."
      "And after he gets here?"
      "All will be well!"
      Rahman Singh spoke with such assurance that Silk could no longer restrain
his impatience.
      "Let's have it," he insisted. "How are you going to snag the guy? Give me
the whole dope."
      "You have already witnessed my method," smiled Rahman Singh. "I have
shown
you how I intend to handle Cranston. I am sure that you will agree that my
scheme is quite as effective as it is simple."
      With that, Rahman Singh brought back the bottle. From the neck, he drew
the cork, tapped it and announced:
      "This is it!"


     CHAPTER XIII

     MEN IN THE DARK

     SILK ELREDGE saw nothing unusual about the bottle cork, and said so.
Rahman Singh held the cork close to the gambler's eyes and pressed the top of
it. A tiny orifice opened in the bottom of the cork.
     Opening a little box, Rahman Singh brought out a medicine dropper; from
it, he let a colorless fluid enter the hollow cork. His finger eased away, the
hole at the cork bottom closed.
     "You will remember," remarked Rahman Singh, "that after I poured myself a
drink I corked the bottle before handing it to you."
     Silk nodded.
     "We were both drinking from the same bottle," stated the Hindu. "The
glasses were fresh ones, therefore you could have suspected nothing. Nor could
anyone else -"
     "Cranston, for instance!" inserted Silk, with enthusiasm. "I get it,
Rahman Singh. You've loaded the cork, and when you handed him the bottle, like
you gave it to me, you'll press the top. The stuff will get into the whiskey!"
     Rahman Singh smiled his approval of Silk's insight. He corked the bottle
very carefully and set it on the proper table. Silk gave a reflective chuckle.
     "A smart stunt!" he approved. "I remember that first phone call you gave
me this afternoon, when you asked me what kind of liquor Cranston usually
ordered at my joint. I told you whiskey.
     "So you're going to hand his nibs a Mickey Finn. Say, that will make a
cinch of it! How soon will the stuff hit him, and how much of a wallop has it
got? We don't want The Shadow to make trouble after the mob snatches him."
     Rahman Singh calculated for a few moments. He studied the medicine
dropper
as he replaced it in the box.
     "The stuff can't be tasted," he said, at length. "It's better than most
knock-out drops. You don't feel it for a while, but when it hits" - he smacked
one fist against his other palm - "it comes like that!
     "It puts a man out for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. But that will be long
enough. I have these" - he opened a drawer beneath the table, to show coiled
rope and strips of rawhide - "to use as bonds. They are strong enough to hold
The Shadow."
     Silk nodded, then added a suggestion. "You'll need to gag him, too."
     Rahman Singh produced a big handkerchief; then, as an afterthought, he
brought out a bag that looked like a hood, for it was large enough to go over
a
man's head.
     "I use this when I perform my blind-fold tests," declared Rahman Singh.
"It will hold the gag tightly in place. Sometimes gags can be worked loose."
     All preparations satisfactory, Silk was ready to leave. Rahman Singh
halted him, with a wise suggestion:
     "Wait until I have called Cranston. We must make sure that he can come
tonight. Otherwise, we shall have to postpone our plans."
     Silk sat down, while Rahman Singh picked up the telephone that had long
ago been provided for the hide-out. Soon, the Hindu's voice was speaking its
oily tone across the wire. He was connected with the Cobalt Club and asking
for
Lamont Cranston.
     Gold teeth gleamed from the black beard, as Rahman Singh listened to the
response from the telephone receiver.


     OUTSIDE, Silk's mobbies formed separate clusters at distant spots along
the street. Some were roving about carrying messages to others who were
lurking
near the rear of the hide-out. One thug suddenly hissed to the others:
     "There's Silk!"
     They recognized the derby-hatted figure with the muffled overcoat, saw a
hand go up and make shoulder gestures. They understood the simple signals,
mumbled the good news among themselves while Silk's car was wheeling away.
     "He means the guy is due to show up," grafted one. "All we gotta do is
lay
down until he does."
     "Then slide up after him," added another, "so we can snatch him and take
him out by the back. The outfit there has got the car."
     "Yeah. Only we gotta allow time for that Hindu to spring something
first."
     "Sure! Silk gave us the lowdown on that. Didn't you see him spread his
fingers when he stuck his mitt up? That meant five minutes."
     The five minutes, of course, applied to the time that was to follow
Cranston's arrival. It was at least a quarter hour before the lurking thugs
saw
a big limousine pull up in front of the squalid house.
      They saw a passenger alight; he was dressed in evening clothes and moved
in leisurely style. Had they been close enough, they would have discerned the
features of Lamont Cranston. With a wave, The Shadow dismissed the limousine,
then strolled toward the house steps.
      Restless mobbies were beginning to think that the victim suspected a
trap,
when he suddenly snapped from his idleness. Swinging a cane with one
gray-gloved
hand, Cranston opened the house door and entered. The crooks began to clock
the
minutes as soon as he was gone from sight.
      Five minutes passed. Mobsters emerged from hiding spots, crossed the
street and massed through the door of the marked house. They left one man as
lookout, then started to creep up the bare stairs.
      Near the door they wanted, the snatch crew could hear the sound of
voices;
one, oily, almost apologetic, that of Rahman Singh. Replies were coming in a
level tone that represented Cranston. There was a gurgle of liquid pouring
into
glasses.
      The talk continued; gradually, Rahman Singh's voice predominated, for
Cranston's was growing weaker. There came a sound, like the thump of a body on
the floor. Crooks reached the stout door, waited eagerly for it to open.
      Meanwhile, the lookout below was watching passing traffic. He saw a car
wheel into the street, twist toward the nearer curb and halt there with a
jolt.
The huddled crook's pasty face contorted, as he gave a squint.
      "Cripes!" he uttered. "A squad car!"
      From another block came the start of a siren's whine, hastily cut off.
Someone had begun to shrill the device too soon. The lookout saw a stocky man
leap from the squad car and turn toward the door of the house.
      He knew that swarthy face by sight.
      It belonged to Inspector Joe Cardona!


     THE police official saw the thug wriggle back into the doorway. Cardona's
hand, already at his hip, came out with a Police Positive. He shouted for the
thug to halt; getting no response, he riddled the doorway with bullets.
     Other officers were at his heels, more cars were rolling into the street,
when Cardona sprang into the house.
     Upstairs, crooks were pounding Rahman Singh's door, bellowing for the
Hindu to open it. They had heard the gunfire, and the lookout had arrived
hoarsely announcing that the bulls had begun a raid.
     Thinking themselves trapped, the crooks wheeled, ready to mow down
opposing cops; but at that moment they were given another outlet.
     Rahman Singh yanked his door inward. The mob saw the Hindu pointing to a
trussed prisoner, whose head was covered with a cloth hood. While they were
grabbing the victim, Rahman Singh crossed ahead of them; babbling in some
unknown tongue, the Hindu tugged the rear door wide and pointed them out
through the back of the hide-out.
     Mobsters were gone, with their burden, when Cardona arrived at the head
of
his squad and covered Rahman Singh with the revolver that had fired the
opening
shots. The Hindu cowered helplessly in the corner; counting him an important
prisoner, Cardona remained, while the officers dashed through.
     From the rear stairs Joe heard a shout, as the cops saw that escaping
thugs were carrying a human burden. Catching the significance, Cardona poked
his gun hard against Rahman Singh's ribs and demanded:
     "Who did they snatch? The Shadow?"
     It wasn't guesswork on Cardona's part. He was here on a tip-off: the
phone
call that he had waited to receive. The Shadow's voice had come over the wire
again, urging the police ace to invade this hide-out with a squad.
      Rahman Singh merely leered. His darkened hand took hold of Cranston's
gun,
shifted it aside as Joe tugged the trigger. The revolver was empty, because of
the barrage that Cardona had loosed below. Rahman Singh had seen that its
chambers contained no slugs.
      There was a rapid grapple between the slippery Hindu and the stocky
inspector. It ended when Rahman Singh proved himself master of other Oriental
arts than those of the Hindu mystics. The specialty which he revealed was
jujitsu; with the skill of a Japanese wrestler, he sent Cardona on a whirling
flight that bowled over the table holding the crystal and sent the big glass
ball rolling along the floor.
      Coming to hands and knees, Cardona shook the cobwebs from his swimming
head. He saw Rahman Singh opening a closet door, peeling away his turban with
one hand, snatching at something with the other. Reserves were clattering
upward on the front stairs; Cardona still thought he had a chance to detain
the
tricky Hindu.
      Rahman Singh saw Cardona come to his feet. He flung a mass of Oriental
garments toward the inspector; as they were brushed away, he grabbed the
crystal from the corner where it had rolled. At threat of a throwing gesture,
Cardona ducked; when he looked again, Rahman Singh was peeling away his beard!
      It was false, that beard, but so well fitted that it took a twisting tug
to remove it. His hand across his mouth, Rahman Singh plucked out gold shells
that gave his real teeth the appearance of false ones. Chucking the crystal
just above Cardona's head, Rahman Singh caused Joe to duck again.
      Thus did the Hindu keep Cardona from sighting his real face. His back was
turned, he was clamping a hat on his head and sweeping a cloak across his
shoulders. But he wasn't a Hindu - nor was he a crook!
      Rahman Singh was The Shadow!
      Bounding to the window sill, he yanked the top sash downward, thrust his
long arms up through. His hands must have caught the hanging rung of a rope
ladder, and gone one over the other in a rapid, timely climb. The cloaked
figure seemed to lash itself into darkness with more than whippet speed.
      Rahman Singh was gone again, this time forever. The Shadow had openly
cast
off the Hindu disguise, that Joe Cardona might recognize the truth and forget
the futile search for a man who did not exist. There were other matters, more
important, that should concern the law.
      Cardona recognized that by the time his reserves arrived. Ignoring the
opened window, the ace inspector started for the rear door of the hide-out,
beckoning his men along a trail that actual crooks had taken!


     CHAPTER XIV

     FACTS FOR THE LAW

     THE whole reason for The Shadow's dual part was plain to Joe Cardona by
the time he and his men had reached the ground. The inspector knew that The
Shadow had probed deeply into the Rendrew murder. He realized, too, that The
Shadow must have foreseen crime at the old mansion, even though he had not
prevented it.
     To acquaint himself with affairs in the Rendrew household, The Shadow had
adopted the guise of Rahman Singh as an effective mode of getting information
from Louise Dreller, who became talkative when anyone played upon her
gullibility.
      The Shadow had gained the facts he wanted just prior to the fatal evening
when Adam Rendrew had met death. No longer needing the guise of Rahman Singh,
he had instigated a police raid so that there would be an excuse for the
Hindu's disappearance.
      No wonder The Shadow had been seen in back of Rahman Singh's!
      Vanished from the seance room, he had cloaked himself in black. He had
traveled farther than Cardona and the others thought, when they reached the
rear courtyard. They would never have found Rahman Singh, for he no longer
existed.
      Oddly, the police who had spotted The Shadow had actually been on the
trail of the fugitive Rahman Singh.
      Not they, but Cardona, had been duped; but Joe found solace in the fact
that Clyde Burke had also been fooled. He would have appreciated it more, had
he known that the reporter was one of The Shadow's agents. But there was
something else that added more solace. The Shadow, too, had been at loss that
night.
      He hadn't expected the hue and cry that arrived upon his trail, because
the murder at Rendrew's apparently wasn't listed on The Shadow's schedule.
After the excitement, The Shadow found that his part of Rahman Singh had
produced serious consequences, since the Hindu was wanted for more than
running
a fake seance: namely, for complicity in the Rendrew murder.
      At last The Shadow had cleared Rahman Singh off the books, in
satisfactory
style. There was more to this present episode, however, than Joe Cardona
reckoned. Before Joe began to think about the other angles, he was in the
midst
of them.
      Crooks had reached their sedan and were shoving a bound figure aboard it.
They were wheeling away amid a spattering fire from police guns. They weren't
going far, though, for police cars closed in at the next corner, to block
their
path. Leaping from their own vehicle, the thugs scattered like rats for
whatever
cover they could find.
      Cardona reached the abandoned car. To the accompaniment of shots that
announced a skirmish between police and hoodlums, Cardona cut the bonds of the
prisoner who lay in the sedan. Yanking the hood from the man's head, Joe
tugged
away the gag. He helped the man into the light, found himself staring at a
face
he recognized.
      The released man was Silk Elredge! Crooks had snatched their own leader!


     ALL that was beyond Cardona's ken. Only Silk could have related the facts
which even his own crew did not know. Yet Silk was hazy on certain details,
though he had begun to guess them.
     As Rahman Singh, The Shadow had literally "given the dope" to Silk. He
had
worked the cork trick on the crook, just before revealing the details of the
scheme. Silk had slumped in his chair, while The Shadow, as Rahman Singh, had
been faking a phone call to himself, as Lamont Cranston!
     After that, The Shadow had bound Silk and rendered him unrecognizable by
the hood. Donning the overcoat and derby, he had gone out the front door,
passing himself as Silk, giving a signal to the lurking mob and taking the
gambler's own car.
     Elsewhere, he had made a phone call to Cardona, then returned to the
hide-out as Cranston, to draw the mob inside. Keeping them waiting outside the
door, The Shadow had conducted a conversation between his two selves - Rahman
Singh and Cranston - while again garbing himself in Hindu costume.
      Naturally, the thugs, when finally admitted, had grabbed the prisoner
pointed out by Rahman Singh. Therewith, The Shadow had placed them in an
unlovely situation. Despite their mistake, the fact remained that they had
staged a kidnapping. To clear them of that charge, Silk Elredge would have to
admit that he had hired them for such work.
      All that would force other statements, and Silk knew it as he faced
Cardona. He would have to tell about the deal with Archie Dreller. If he
talked
himself out of that mess, he would be in for another.
      The police were looking for the big-shot who had caused the battle up
near
Helene's apartment, and it wouldn't take them long to connect the affair with
Silk Elredge. If they couldn't find the proper proof, The Shadow would somehow
manage to provide it.
      Guns were talking spasmodically. Thugs and police were keeping under
cover
while they fired. The crooks knew they were bottled up and were hoping for
some
break. The police, in turn, were content to hold their present advantage until
they received new orders.
      They expected such orders from Joe Cardona, but he was waiting for Silk
to
declare himself. There was something very funny about the whole business, and
Cardona wanted to know what it was. Silk knew he had to talk, but couldn't
find
his usually glib-voice.
      The crook knew that The Shadow was Lamont Cranston, but the value of that
knowledge was gone. What if he did tell Joe Cardona? Maybe the inspector
already knew it. The Shadow might be working closer with the law than Silk
supposed.
      No, that was one thing that Silk would never reveal, and he realized that
The Shadow knew it. Crimedom held to the tradition that it wasn't healthy to
talk about The Shadow, if he knew where to find you. In his present
predicament, Silk could see that his future address would no longer be the
Club
Cadiz, but a cell in a State penitentiary.
      Such quarters would be uncomfortable enough, without the prospect of a
visit from The Shadow.
      For Silk Elredge, his brain warped by the traditions of mobdom, firmly
believed that The Shadow met crooks with their own methods, even to the
ultimate degree of rubbing out a squealer. Coupling that with his opinion that
The Shadow could travel anywhere, even to the barred confines of a great
prison, Silk decided that it would never do to blab.


     TENSE moments held Silk Elredge on the brink of a really momentous
decision. For once in his life he was about to come clean, to confess all he
knew and rely on the mercy of the law and the fair play of The Shadow.
     In fact, The Shadow had already given Silk the very chance that the crook
had started to consider. It was a test that would have helped him much more
than he supposed, had Silk possessed any love of sincerity.
     Silk, however, was a full-fledged rat, by nature as well as deed.
Preferring crime to honesty, he suddenly took advantage of a chance at dirty
work. Cardona was giving him an opportunity to recuperate from a state that
seemed bewilderment. Silk recovered in a vicious fashion.
     From his hip he yanked a gun that The Shadow had left on him. Swinging
the
weapon toward Cardona, Silk pulled the trigger. The gun didn't bark, because
The
Shadow had removed the bullets while Silk lay helpless. It was another bit of
foresight - allowing the crook to bare his fangs, only to find he couldn't use
them.
      By rights, that move should have led to Silk's prompt suppression; but
Cardona, too, was handling an unloaded gun. He produced it as a gesture; by
that time, Silk was springing away, howling for his mobbies to rally. Their
leader's daring brought them out from cover.
      Guns ripped, as the crooks charged for the end of the street. Police
bullets met them, but didn't stop the drive. Even though their ranks were
thinning, the hoodlums had the advantage in numbers; once it came to a
hand-to-hand fight, they could win.
      Silk was behind them, for he had stopped to grab a gun that a sprawling
thug had dropped, but his shouts - no longer smooth, but raspy - kept spurring
on the charge.
      Dropping to the shelter behind the sedan, Joe Cardona had decided that it
was time to reload. He had just filled his gun with cartridges, when he saw
that mobsters were beyond control. Almost to the corner, they were forcing the
officers to leave their cover, or be cut off from each other. Carnage was due,
and Cardona thought that nothing could stop it.
      Cardona was wrong. From a low roof near the corner came the challenge of
a
mocking laugh, a tone that pealed loudly above the rattle of guns. A mighty
taunt, that no crook could fail to recognize; mirth that brought a responding
shout from the lips of Silk Elredge. Like their leader, crooks wheeled.
      They saw The Shadow. From his position, he was about to cut off their
charge, exactly as they hoped to trap the outspread police. There was a
difference, though; the thugs were many, The Shadow was only one. Moreover, he
had flung the gauntlet that no crook could ignore. With The Shadow as a
target,
all others had to be forgotten.
      Guns stabbed upward. The shots were hasty, but accurate, for the distance
could be gauged. Bullets ripped the roof edge, yet The Shadow's laugh
persisted. With it, he dispatched answering bullets that found human marks.
      The edge of that roof was sheeted with galvanized iron, which was the
reason why The Shadow had chosen it. The metal deflected the bullets that
ripped through; other shots, that zimmed above the roof rim, were too high. No
longer was The Shadow a standing figure outlined against the dingy wall of
yellow brick.
      He had dropped to the roof level as the barrage began. The muzzles of
automatics were the only targets that he left in sight. They were thrust out
just far enough to loose their belching flame straight for the blood-mad
marksmen that he fought.


      PERHAPS The Shadow could not have stood that conflict more than a few
minutes, for the iron barricade was not stout enough to last through a
prolonged hail of lead. But he was counting upon co-operation that his timely
attack had rendered possible - and it came with swift response.
      The Shadow had diverted the driving crooks by a thrust from one flank.
While he was taking over the brunt of battle, the police rallied and used The
Shadow's system of a flank attack. Theirs came from the opposite direction. It
was a charge, in solid force.
      Pouring their bullets into the massed foe, the officers matched The
Shadow's action. Thugs, caught in a pincer trap, began to fling away their
guns
and throw up their hands. Those who managed that surrender were fortunate, for
they stood knee-deep among the sagging figures of their pals.
      One man alone refused to quit. Silk Elredge had turned, to dash in the
opposite direction. He saw Joe Cardona swinging in to intercept him. Silk
flung
his gun hand forward, hoping to settle the ace inspector. Cardona's revolver
beat him to the shot; but a single bullet could not have produced the
contortions that Silk underwent.
      A shot from the roof had nicked Silk first, in the shoulder of his gun
arm. Jolted sideward. Silk took Cardona's bullet and went upward. While in the
midst of what seemed a twisting leap, he was flayed forward by a literal
barrage from the guns of Cardona's men. The wallop of three bullets flattened
Silk squarely on his face.
      Waving for his men to hold their fire, Cardona reached the fallen mob
leader. Though any one of Silk's wounds might have proven mortal, the would-be
murderer was still alive. Cardona turned Silk's face upward, stared at eyes
that blinked through blood that streamed from a battered forehead. Full-force
contact with the paving had bashed Silk's features into an almost
unrecognizable condition.
      Coolly, Joe Cardona was playing a hunch. This fray, he was positive,
meant
a link with the Rendrew case. Voicing the first thought that came to mind,
Cardona gruffed:
      "You croaked Rendrew and planted the job on Kelden. Better spill it,
Silk.
You're done!"
      Silk shook his head weakly.
      "I didn't... didn't croak Rendrew. It was a shakedown I was after...
working with another guy."
      "Who was he?"
      "Archie... Archie Dreller."
      "Then he killed Rendrew?"
      "I... don't... know."
      Silk coughed each word separately. The completed sentence was his last. A
spasm racked him; when it ended, dead shoulders settled from Cardona's grasp.
      Staring toward the low roof, Cardona saw the fading shape of The Shadow.
By the time the police inspector was beckoning to his men, there was no
remaining sign of the black-cloaked figure. At that moment, however, Cardona
was catching the gleam of a new light in his brain, exactly as The Shadow had
designed.
      With Rahman Singh out of the picture, and Silk Elredge definitely in it,
Cardona had proof that the law had failed to delve into every angle of the
Rendrew case. Since important facts had been missed entirely, it might be that
the whole affair possessed a different twist.
      Cardona was actually ready to concede that someone other than Dwight
Kelden could have murdered Adam Rendrew. But he couldn't quite believe that
anyone like Archie Dreller could be the party responsible. He decided that the
real solution still depended upon finding Dwight Kelden.
      It didn't occur to Joe Cardona that The Shadow was planning to reveal the
true facts of murder without producing Dwight at all. With midnight only a few
hours away, Cardona still clung to his hope of finding the missing man and
making him talk.
      Great though the odds were against that prospect, Joe Cardona was
actually
to find Dwight Kelden before midnight.
      He was to find the trail he wanted without the aid or knowledge of The
Shadow!


     CHAPTER XV

     HELENE'S MEETING

     WHILE The Shadow had been arranging the finish of two careers - those of
the nonexistent Rahman Singh and the actual Silk Elredge - matters had been
very quiet in the old Rendrew mansion. Only two persons were in the house:
Helene Graymond and Froy.
     John Osman was off to another session with the lawyers handling the
estate. Archie Dreller had gone to play poker with the same friends that he
had
so often invited to his den. Louise had made a later exit, fluffily dressed
and
in a great hurry, to join a crowd that was going to the theater.
     In the house office, Helene was typing more of the unending lists, when
she heard the ringing of the telephone bell. There was an extension in the
office, but the switch was off, because Osman didn't want to be bothered with
other calls when occupied with the details of the estate.
     So Helene started out into the hallway, only to find that Froy had
reached
the telephone ahead of her.
     "Yes..." Froy was speaking in his drab manner. "No, she is not here at
present, sir... I can have her call you... Yes, she may return at any
moment...
Very well, sir..."
     Froy made a notation on a telephone pad. He was folding the paper, when
he
turned and saw Helene. Placing the slip in his vest pocket, the servant
announced:
     "A call for Miss Dreller. I shall give her the message when she returns."
     "But Miss Louise won't be back soon," said Helene. "She went to the
theater this evening."
     Froy blinked. For the first time, Helene saw him show an expression that
resembled surprise. Then, mumbling to himself, the servant walked away. Helene
returned to the office, convinced that something must be wrong with Froy.
     Her mild alarm was increased, when the servant appeared in the office
about ten minutes later. Froy was carrying a square tin box that had a folding
handle. The box had no lock, but it bore two heavy side clamps. Planking the
box on Helene's desk, Froy asked solemnly:
     "Miss Graymond, could I ask your help in a matter which is very important
to me?"
     "Certainly," replied Helene. "What is the trouble, Froy?"
     The servant stroked his forehead.
     "I have been ill," he declared, weakly. "Terribly upset, ever since Mr.
Rendrew died. You knew how faithful I was to him."
     Helene nodded. Despite his faithfulness, Froy had not been remembered in
Rendrew's will. The servant was staying on only because Osman was kind enough
to keep him.
     Osman had added that it would be a lifetime job for the old servant, and
Froy had been ardent in his thanks. Still, Helene could understand why he
should feel bitter toward the situation, enough so to class his feelings as
illness.
     "It's my memory," confessed Froy. "It's left me. I forget things - such
as
Miss Dreller going to" - he blinked - "to where did you say she went?"
     "To the theater."
     Froy repeated the statement, in an effort to remember it. "But about this
box, I'm afraid I'll mislay it somewhere, Miss -"
     He paused apologetically, to indicate that he had actually forgotten
Helene's name during the conversation. Helene reminded him who she was, asked
him if he could remember what he wanted to tell her about the box. The
question
brought a coherent reply from Froy.
     "It contains my savings," he declared, "from all the years that I have
been here. I wish you would keep it in the safe for me."
     "Certainly!" agreed Helene. Noting that Froy looked anxious because the
box was merely clamped, not locked, she added: "You may be quite sure that I
shall not open it."
     "You won't tell Mr. Osman, or the others, unless something should happen
to me -"
     "Of course not! Don't worry, Froy. I'll try to help you remember things,
any time you want. Your memory will be all right again, very soon."


      FROY departed in his soft-footed style. Helene let the box stay on her
desk, because she intended to open the safe when she had typed the lists.
      It was a large safe, in one corner of the office, and Helene had the
combination to it. Its contents were mostly real-estate documents, kept there
so they would be preserved in case of fire. Nothing in the safe was of any
great value, and there would surely be some space where Froy's box could be
tucked out of sight.
      Again the telephone bell was ringing, and this time Helene answered it.
Froy had been gone about five minutes and she supposed that he had retired to
his room.
      Thoughts of Froy vanished completely when Helene heard the voice across
the telephone. It wasn't a call from The Shadow, as she had expected. In a
way,
it was even more startling to Helene.
      The man on the wire was Dwight Kelden!
      "Helene!" Dwight's tone was breathless. "It's you, Helene; I know your
voice!"
      "Yes, Dwight!"
      "I thought you'd be back by this time. I must see you, Helene, right
away.
I'm outside the hotel -"
      "What hotel?"
      "The Espon, where I left word for you to call. Of course, I didn't give
my
name, not even the one I'm registered under. I only told Froy the room number
and asked him to have you call there."
      Poor Froy! Recollections of the servant again came to Helene. He had been
so muddled that he had thought that last call was for Louise! With Froy in
that
state, it didn't matter that he had talked to Dwight; particularly since
Dwight
had been careful not to mention his own name, or his present alias.
      Helene's voice was calm as she asked, "Where shall I meet you, Dwight?"
      "There's a little restaurant one block east of the Espon. I'll be waiting
outside it. We can go in there and have coffee while we talk."
      "I'll start right away, Dwight."
      Helene hurried up to her room. While she was getting her hat and coat,
she
heard another ringing sound, this time the front doorbell. It stopped
abruptly,
so she supposed that Froy had heard the summons and gone to answer it.
      Remembering the package that The Shadow had sent her, Helene brought it
from the place where she had hidden it. She wanted a safer spot for it and
knew
a very good one, where the package could remain during her absence.
      There was a heavy chest set in a niche in the second-floor hall; filled
with family relics, the thing was too heavy to move. The chest was locked, but
there was a space behind it, thanks to a slope in the wall.
      Someone was calling her name from the floor below. Recognizing Osman's
voice, Helene left her hat and coat on the chest and hurried downstairs. She
met Osman at the door of the office.
      "Where is Froy?" he questioned. "When I rang the doorbell, he did not
answer. I had to use my key."
     "I think Froy went to his room," replied Helene. Then, anxious to take
the
servant's part, she added: "I told him I could answer the doorbell. I thought
I
could hear it in my room."
     Osman's stubby face looked mollified. He glanced at his watch and
shrugged.
     "I have only lost five minutes here," he declared. "I suppose I can spare
that much time. Provided" - he looked hopeful - "that you have finished typing
the new lists. We need them."
     "I have them, Mr. Osman."
     The lists were on Helene's desk, along with Froy's metal box. Helene
shifted herself between Osman and the desk, to cut off any chance view of the
box. Gathering the lists, she turned about; half seated on the edge of the
desk, she let one hand slide behind her to make sure that she had gauged the
proper angle that would keep the box completely out of sight.
     With her other hand, the girl extended the lists to Osman. Smiling, she
announced:
     "Here they are."
     Osman was more than pleased. He remarked that he and the lawyers had
finished with all the work they had at hand, but were anxious to continue. The
lists would keep them busy for a few hours longer. Thanking Helene profusely,
he left the office and went out by the front door.
     Immediately, the girl hurried to the second floor, put on her hat and
coat
and came down again. Hearing nothing from Froy, and realizing that Osman might
have had trouble getting a cab outside, she decided to make an important phone
call. The number that she dialed was the one that The Shadow's message had
mentioned.


     A MINUTE later, Helene was talking to Burbank. The contact man did not
state his name, but the girl was impressed by the methodical tone in which he
spoke. Instead of talking excitedly, Helene found herself equally calm.
     The details that she gave were complete and accurate. Burbank checked
them
in prompt fashion: Dwight's first call, that Froy had answered; Froy's visit
to
the office, with the box; then the call from Dwight that Helene herself had
received, with mention of the Espon Hotel.
     Helene told where she had left The Shadow's package, and spoke of Osman's
return to the house. She described how she had kept Froy's box from Osman's
sight; whereupon Burbank asked if she had put the box in the safe. Helene said
she hadn't, but would do so before starting out to meet Dwight.
     She ended the conversation by promising to call Burbank again, as soon as
she returned. After that, she went into the office, turned the combination of
the safe and stowed the metal box deep beneath a stack of papers.
     Closing the safe, Helene hurried out through the front door.
     There was a taxi near the drugstore at the next corner, and Helene gave
an
address near the Espon Hotel. Her trip ended, she found the restaurant that
Dwight had mentioned. While she was approaching the door, a man stepped up and
joined her.
     It was Dwight Kelden. He didn't give a word of greeting, nor did Helene.
They entered a booth and ordered coffee. As soon as it arrived, and they were
really alone, Helene and Dwight locked hands across the table. Their eyes met
in a long gaze, and both spoke in eager whispers.
     "I knew you'd come!" exclaimed Dwight. "I tried to reach you the other
night, Helene, when you were at the apartment, but too many things happened."
     "You mean the gun fight?"
     Dwight nodded. Helene noted that his face looked very haggard. His eyes
showed that he was tired, and his hair was uncombed. Perhaps he had purposely
left it so, to offset the latest police description.
     His puffs at his cigarette were nervous; to almost anyone but Helene, he
would have fitted the brand that had been placed upon him: that of a hunted
murderer. Helene, however, saw only the Dwight Kelden whom she had met a year
ago, and he was still the man she loved.
     Those marks of strain, in the girl's opinion, were the logical result of
the unjust persecution that had forced Dwight into hiding. Yet, in fairness to
both Dwight and herself, she felt that she must ask him about those very
circumstances. Anything that she learned might be helpful to the one person
who
could aid an innocent man to shed crime's burden. That one person was The
Shadow.
     "You know I didn't kill my uncle," whispered Dwight. "You're probably the
only person who believes the truth. That's why I had to talk to you."
     "It might be better to talk to the police," returned Helene. "Perhaps
they
would believe you, too."
     "They might," admitted Dwight, "but there are certain things I can't
understand. I've got to know the answers, Helene, before I can give myself
up."
     Helene's eyes denoted inquiry.
     "I was at the house," admitted Dwight. "I had a gun, and I used it. I was
the man that fled by the side door. But I didn't fire the shot that killed
Uncle Adam. Worse, I don't know who did. Until I find that out, I'd be a fool
to put myself in sight.
     "You've been there at the house, all along. Maybe you know something that
the police haven't let get into the newspapers. If you do, you've got to tell
me. I need your help to prove my innocence. There must be some solution to all
this, Helene."


      HELENE nodded agreement. She had every reason to believe that the riddle
could be answered. Though she did not understand the purpose of The Shadow's
present preparations, she had his assurance that they would bring an end to
whatever mystery shrouded the death of Adam Rendrew.
      She was confident, too, that The Shadow intended to crack the case
to-night. But she didn't want to rouse Dwight's hope until she knew the
details. She had promised to aid The Shadow, and intended to do so. It would
be
better to let him talk to Dwight.
      "I'm going back to the house," declared Helene, suddenly. "I think,
Dwight, that I may learn something there."
      "You mean that you've found clues -"
      "I mean that clues may come," interposed Helene. "When they do, you will
hear from me, Dwight. I can add only this: someone other than the police has
begun an investigation that may prove your innocence. Rely upon it, Dwight!"
      They went out to the street. She gave a smile as she pressed Dwight's
hand.
      "You'd better turn in," said Helene. "You need a rest. Get some sleep,
Dwight, and forget your troubles until tomorrow. That's what I'm going to do."
      Then, Helene was in a taxicab, blowing a kiss from the window. A smile
crept to Dwight's tired lips, as if he half believed that his worries were due
to end. That smile made Helene give a happy sob, as she was riding back to the
old mansion.
      Had she known what the immediate future held for Dwight Kelden, her sob
would have been one of anguish. New complications were due to harass the man
she loved.
    Complications which not even The Shadow had foreseen!


    CHAPTER XVI

    MURDER BRINGS MURDER

     SOON after Helene's report to Burbank, the contact man heard from The
Shadow. Having settled scores with Silk Elredge, the cloaked fighter was ready
for the moves that would finally solve the Rendrew murder. He was calling
Burbank to send orders to his agents, but the news that The Shadow received
caused him to make immediate changes.
     Analyzing matters more deeply than Helene had, The Shadow came to
definite
conclusions. He could foresee complications that needed swift attention. He
gave
Burbank prompt instructions; among them was the order that Helene should make
no
move whatever, after she returned to the house.
     When she phoned, Burbank was to ask her for the combination of the office
safe. That given, Helene was to retire, leaving the package exactly where it
was. New factors had entered the case, making it preferable for The Shadow to
handle future details, instead of Helene.
     The Shadow's immediate destination was the Espon Hotel. He reached there
in Moe's cab just in time to see Dwight Kelden entering the lobby, back from
his meeting with Helene. The Shadow instructed Moe to go inside, and see at
what floor the elevator clock stopped when Dwight ascended.
     The Shadow took a different route to enter the Espon Hotel. The structure
was an old one, fairly tall but very narrow. Moe had parked short of the
lights
that shone from beneath the dingy marquee. A quick glide took The Shadow past
the side of the building, where a fire escape beckoned.
     By the time The Shadow had ascended to the fourth floor, Moe was back at
the cab. He seemed to be having trouble with the switch that controlled the
head lamps. They blinked every time he put them on. Oddly, those blinks were
always the same number: seven.
     From the fire escape, The Shadow answered with a tiny flashlight that
blinked red, green and white signals. He had caught Moe's signal.
     Thus learning that Dwight's destination was the seventh floor, The Shadow
anticipated little difficulty in finding the right room. There weren't many
rooms on the individual floors at the Espon; and Dwight's would certainly be
one room with a light showing through its transom.
     The search, however, was to prove much easier than The Shadow expected.
He
had just reached the fifth-floor level, when he heard the muffled sound of a
gunshot. Pausing, The Shadow calculated the direction from which the noise had
come. It had been to the right of the fire escape, and evidently inside the
hotel. Whether from below or above, was difficult to determine by the sound
itself.
     For that, The Shadow used a different mode of calculation. Looping from
the fire escape, he saw a light in the corner room on the seventh floor.
Chances were that the shot had come from there; that it was the room to which
Dwight Kelden had just gone.


     THE SHADOW covered the next two flights with long, swift leaps. He struck
an obstacle when he reached the fire exit from the seventh floor. The door was
latched, so as to prevent intruders from getting into the hotel.
     Rather than waste time by going down and up again by another route, The
Shadow devoted his energy to jimmying the door. Woodwork ripped under the
prying sharp curved tool which The Shadow clamped to an automatic muzzle. He
was using the gun as a lever; had the door proven obstinate, he would have
blasted it open with bullets.
     As it happened, the door gave rapidly, with comparatively little noise,
except on The Shadow's side.
     Once through the door, The Shadow followed a roundabout line of short
passages. He went by an inner stairway, then passed the elevators. His route
doubled back, and brought him to the door of the room he wanted. It was partly
open; peering through the space, The Shadow swung it wide.
     Two men were in that room. One was Dwight Kelden, half stooped to the
floor holding a revolver in his hand. The other man was prone; his head
wabbled
crazily as Dwight lifted it. A dead face twisted into the light; as Dwight
stepped back, The Shadow saw the features clearly, along with the splotch of
blood against the victim's shirt front.
     The dead man was Froy. The withery servant had been murdered by a bullet
straight to the heart!
     The Shadow swept forward. Dwight must have heard the swish of his flowing
cloak, for the young man wheeled with a startled exclamation. Again, he was
clamped by the same clutch that had caught him on that other night, when the
cloaked visitor had arrived in a hotel room.
     This time, Dwight didn't make a struggle. He was overwhelmed too swiftly
to begin one. Moreover, no mob was around to intervene on this occasion. Flung
to a chair, Dwight felt the gun go from his grasp and heard it clank the
floor.
He was looking into the muzzle of an automatic that had a yawn like a cannon.
     Recognizing The Shadow, Dwight tried to accept him as a friend. They had
been allies, to a degree, during that fight of another night. Somehow, Dwight
suspected that The Shadow might be the "other investigator" that Helene had
mentioned.
     Nevertheless, the cornered man let his hands come to shoulder level. From
deep in his chair he made a short side gesture toward Froy's body, and gulped:
     "I didn't kill him!"
     There was sincerity in Dwight's plea - enough to make The Shadow willing
to hear more, particularly because this scene fitted with his own analysis.
Dwight heard The Shadow's whisper; it gave him encouragement. He began to
stammer facts; how he had called Helene, had met her, and then returned here.
     "I saw the body and the gun beside it," he blurted. "I thought it was my
revolver - that I'd left here. But it wasn't mine. It's a .38 caliber; mine is
a .32 that I keep in my suitcase."
     The Shadow saw the suitcase, swung it open. Except for a few clothes, the
bag was empty. The Shadow's gaze swung toward Dwight, who thought he saw
accusation in the glow of the burning eyes.
     "It was there, I tell you!" expressed Dwight. "My own gun - the one I
brought from California - a special model -"


     IT wasn't The Shadow who suddenly interrupted. The sound that made Dwight
halt was the distant clank of an elevator door. It brought the tone of
low-buzzed voices that carried easily through these corridors.
     The Shadow took a swift look into the hallway, hoping to find some outlet
where he could take Dwight and prolong the interview. Dwight, unfortunately,
didn't get the point.
     To his frantic mind came the thought that The Shadow was against him. In
his madness, he actually believed that the black-cloaked stranger was
responsible for his present dilemma. With a sweeping grab toward the floor,
Dwight scooped up the revolver that he had dropped and launched himself
directly for the fighter in black!
     The Shadow came around with a long twist that brought him inside the
doorway before Dwight reached it. He could easily have beaten Dwight to the
shot, for the frantic man hadn't gotten his finger to the gun trigger.
     But The Shadow didn't use his own gun at all. He drove his free fist for
Dwight's chin, met it as it arrived. The blow hooked Dwight clear from the
floor, sprawled him halfway to Froy's body.
     As Dwight fell, his hand gripped more tightly on the gun. There wasn't
time for The Shadow to go after the incriminating revolver. Whisking out
through the doorway, he blended with the darkened end of the hallway just as
three men shouldered into sight. Sighting the leader of the trio, The Shadow
had a real surprise.
     The squad was headed by Inspector Joe Cardona!
     Only a tip-off could have brought Cardona here; and The Shadow had not
supplied it. In fact, Cardona couldn't have had time to go back to
headquarters, after the battle with Silk Elredge and the mob. The Shadow had
seen Joe talking to Silk, but he was positive that the dead gambler could not
have known where Dwight was.
     Then came the real answer; one that fitted perfectly with facts that The
Shadow had learned tonight. Froy's death dropped right into its proper place,
completing the entire sequence, explaining the arrival of Joe Cardona as a
natural consequence. But that wasn't helping matters at present.
     Cardona and his men were through the doorway, to find Dwight on his feet.
Moving to a closer angle, The Shadow saw Dwight clutch the revolver, crazed
enough to begin a blind fire. Fortunately, Cardona reached him and knocked the
gun from his hand. Dwight was still half groggy from The Shadow's punch.
     "We've got you, Kelden!" gruffed Cardona. "This time, you couldn't get
away. Here, you guys" - Joe shoved Dwight into the grip of the two detectives
-
"hang onto him."
     The Shadow saw Cardona stoop beside the body on the floor.
     "So you killed Froy," growled Joe. "How come? Did you have it in for him,
too? Along with your uncle?"
     Dwight's lips clamped shut. He was pale, but his eyes were defiant.
Cardona furnished a grim smile. When chaps went sullen, they usually held out
for a long while. The thing to do was find a way to crack them.
     Cardona picked up the telephone, made a call to headquarters. After
summoning a police surgeon, he called Commissioner Weston.


     FIRST, Cardona reported the matter of Silk Elredge and made mention of
Archie Dreller. Weston must have retorted something, for Cardona grimaced.
Then
he grinned.
     "You say Archie couldn't have done it?" queried Cardona. "All right...
Yes, I agree.... Certainly, commissioner, I know I'm supposed to find
Kelden...
Yes, that's what I'm calling you about. I've got Kelden...
     "No, not Dreller... I've got Kelden... How? On a tip-off that came into
Markham while I was out... Where? Up at the Espon Hotel... Well, no, he didn't
make trouble for us, but he's done another murder...
     "Froy is the victim... No, Kelden hasn't told us why he killed him...
Certainly, I'll make him talk, commissioner... Yes, I'll bring him down to the
Rendrew house... How soon will I have him there? Inside an hour... Yes,
there'll be some details here, first..."
     The Shadow was gliding out through the hallway, heading for the fire
escape. Once there, he phrased a whispered laugh. Matters had taken the very
turn he wanted. Despite the new complications, they promised the results that
The Shadow had planned. Weston's decision that Dwight should be grilled at the
Rendrew mansion would put the next scene where it properly belonged.
     The arrangement was saving The Shadow the necessity of another call to
Cardona, to make that very suggestion. Valuable time had been placed at The
Shadow's own disposal, giving him a full hour in which to set the stage for
the
real climax.
     Murder had brought   murder. Rendrew's death had led to Froy's. Dwight
Kelden stood accused of   double crime, and every shred of evidence known to the
law pointed directly to   his guilt.
     What Dwight's case   would be when new evidence finally appeared, only The
Shadow knew!


     CHAPTER XVII

     CRIME'S LAST HOUR

      AT the exact time of The Shadow's departure from the Espon Hotel, Helene
Graymond arrived back at the Rendrew mansion. She used her passkey to enter,
thinking that perhaps Froy was asleep.
      It was getting late, but no one else had arrived home. Helene hurried to
the telephone and called the number that she had used before. She gave Burbank
a brief report of her interview with Dwight, and received the instructions
that
had been awaiting her return.
      Burbank, it happened, had not yet learned of Froy's death. He simply
assured Helene that all was satisfactory at present, and that she was to leave
The Shadow's package where she had hidden it. He asked for the combination of
the office safe and Helene gave it.
      When Helene inquired what she should do next, Burbank politely replied
that she was to go to bed, and stay there. With that announcement he hung up,
leaving Helene staring at the telephone.
      Defiantly, she banged the telephone on its table and went into the
office.
She felt that she had been taking orders from too many sources. She was tired
of
obeying the police, John Osman, and The Shadow. She had followed such orders
because they were reasonable; but when it reached the point where her bed-time
was being scheduled for her, she was ready to rebel.
      It was five minutes before Helene's anger cooled. By that time, she had
reluctantly conceded that the final order was probably the most sensible of
all. If The Shadow intended to reopen the Rendrew case, everyone would be
questioned.
      Matters might go badly, if the law learned that Helene was in love with
Dwight Kelden. Obviously, The Shadow preferred to have Helene stay out of
sight
until the proper time.
      The only place where she could go, was bed. That realized, Helene decided
to obey. She turned out the office light and went upstairs to her room. There,
thinking of Dwight, she brought his photograph out from its hiding place,
gazed
at it smilingly, while she let down her long hair.
      "Don't worry, dear," she whispered to the picture. "All will be well by
to-morrow. Then I won't have to tuck you out of sight any more. Right now,
though" - she gave the photograph a kiss, and folded it - "I'm putting you
safely away. Good night!"
      Helene replaced the photograph in the bottom of a drawer and promptly
began to undress. Her clothes felt light tonight, and she was smiling, instead
of fighting against sobs. True, her eyes had tears, but they were glad ones.
The bed seemed softer than ever, and after she had turned off the lamp beside
it, the girl snuggled her head in the pillows, quite content to go to sleep.
      Helene wanted to wake up and find it morning; to learn that crime was
solved, with Dwight no longer implicated. She thrilled at the thought that she
might be the first to call him and tell him that everything had turned out
exactly as she had promised.
     Helene was half asleep, when another picture came to mind; one so vivid,
that she believed it must be real. She could see The Shadow, entering the side
door of this very house, coming up the stairs, to find the package that she
had
left for him. Then he was going downstairs again, to the office. There, he was
opening the safe, taking out Froy's metal box!


     AWAKENING with a start, Helene turned on the bed lamp. Half an hour had
passed; maybe her dream was real! Turning off the light, she stole out to the
hallway and reached behind the big chest. Yes, the package was gone. Then
Helene found herself at the head of the stairs, looking down.
     She saw the blink of a flashlight, moving in the direction of the side
door. Another token of departure, like the one that night when The Shadow had
searched the courtyard. Fancying that she heard the side door close, Helene
stole back to bed.
     Helene was hardly in bed again, before another sound actually alarmed
her.
This time, she heard the side door slam; she was sure of it. Then there were
footsteps, loud ones, that came up the side stairs and finally ended at
Helene's very door!
     Upright in bed. Helene saw the door swing open; then gave a long sigh of
relief. It was only Louise Dreller.
     The blonde heard the sigh, and gave one of her own.
     "Gee, I'm glad you're around!" exclaimed Louise. "I've got the jitters
something awful! Come in my room, won't you? So we can talk awhile."
     Helene found her slippers and kimono and followed Louise along the
hallway. Louise turned on the light, then sagged into a chair. Her fluffy
appearance was gone; she really had a worried look. She eyed Helene, gave
another sigh.
     "You certainly look comfortable," declared Louise, kicking her shoes
across the floor. "Fish my kimono out of the closet, will you? I'm going to
get
into it. Stick around awhile, too, so I can talk to you."
     "All right," smiled Helene. "What's the trouble?"
     "The show was lousy, to begin with," declared Louise, "so we all walked
out on it. We went to a lounge bar, and everybody began to drink hot Tom and
Jerrys. Then they began to talk about me - or rather us. Of course, they were
lit, but that didn't change what they said."
     "What did they say?"
     "That anybody might have killed old Uncle Adam. You, myself, Archie,
Johnny - even Froy. Anybody that ever lived around this lousy old house!"
     "What made them think that?"
     "Some foolish talk that came over the radio. About Silk Elredge. He was
killed tonight, in a big battle with the police."
     Helene caught the link at once. She knew that Archie had often gambled at
the Club Cadiz; that the place was run by Silk Elredge. For a moment Helene
hesitated; then asked boldly:
     "Did that start them talking about Archie?"
     "It did," returned Louise. "One fellow was just crocked enough to bet
that
the thing linked up with Uncle Adam.
     "He said that the cops were crazy, looking for Dwight, while Archie was
still around. He said Archie was all set to go on a cruise, too, which made
the
whole thing look real bad."
     Helene bit her lips. She had thought of Archie as the murderer, but
didn't
like to say so to Louise. After all, Archie was Louise's brother.
     "Then somebody said that Archie was too dumb," announced Louise. "They
said he was too big a sap to even load a gun, let alone fire it. So some
fat-head thought he'd get flip, and asked me if I'd done it!"


      LOUISE paused to put on her pajamas. Helene gave her the kimono and found
her slippers for her. By that time, Louise was pouring further details.
      "I gave him a cold stare, of course," she said, indignantly, "and that
started the rest of them. By the time I'd walked out, they were laying odds on
who shot Uncle Adam! They had Archie running first, Dwight second, and - just
imagine it! - I was third!"
      Helene laughed, despite herself.
      "What about the rest of us?" she asked. "You said we were all in it."
      "You were just a bunch of also-rans," declared Louise, "with about one
taker apiece. You, Froy, and Johnny. One fellow picked Silk Elredge, another
bet on Rahman Singh. There were two, though - this is really funny - who
thought that Uncle Adam committed suicide!"
      Helene tried to laugh, but couldn't. The whole thing was too serious, its
only ray of comfort being the fact that popular opinion did not entirely agree
that Dwight was the murderer of Adam Rendrew. Then she began to wonder how
much
she could really allow for the flippant ideas that had been voiced by Louise's
friends.
      Perhaps the whole thing had been a practical joke, to see how the blonde
would react. If so, the crowd had certainly had their fun, for Louise had
finally walked out. Nevertheless, there must be a murderer somewhere, and if
it
wasn't Dwight, who could it be?
      In the midst of her bewilderment, Helene heard a sound from downstairs;
this time, it was the front door. Voices talked excitedly; Louise gave a
nervous jump, almost dropped the cigarette that she was inserting in a long
ivory holder. She gasped to Helene:
      "See who it is!"
      Helene hurried out to the front stairs. She saw John Osman and Archie
Dreller. She called to them and Osman answered:
      "I am glad you are here, Miss Graymond. Has Louise come home yet?"
      Helene nodded, just as Louise arrived beside her.
      "Hello, sis!" chuckled Archie. "You'll be in on the fun, too. Johnny here
came around and dragged me away from my poker party, after the police called
him."
      "The police?" inquired Helene, anxiously.
      "Yes." It was Osman who replied. "They want to talk to all of us again."
      Louise drew a puff from her cigarette, lowered the holder languidly and
asked:
      "What about Froy? Shall I call him?"
      Osman looked at Archie, then solemnly shook his head. All that Archie did
was chuckle.
      "You'd have a long job of it," he told Louise. "Froy is dead! He was
murdered, like Uncle Adam!"
      Louise gave a real shriek.
      "Pull yourself together," suggested Archie. "He wasn't killed here.
They've got the murderer -"
      Before Archie could say more, the doorbell rang. Osman answered it,
admitted two persons. One was a man with a short-clipped, pointed mustache,
who
introduced himself as the police commissioner. The other was tall,
immaculately
attired in evening clothes; his face was masklike, with an immobile, hawkish
expression.
      Louise gripped Helene's arm.
     "It's Lamont Cranston!" the blonde exclaimed. "He's been everywhere - to
India and Tibet! He called me this afternoon -"


    HELENE couldn't listen to Louise's chatter. She was concentrating upon
the
conversation below. Someone was mentioning Inspector Cardona and a prisoner.
Horrified, Helene could only grasp Louise's arm, to steady herself. She was
straining to hear the mention of a name, when the doorbell began to ring
again.
     Commissioner Weston strode over to admit the new arrivals. Two detectives
entered, bringing a handcuffed man between them. Inspector Cardona followed,
bearing himself proudly, but Helene did not even see him. She was stumbling
down the stairs, clutching the banister rail.
     One slipper tripped her, as it left her foot; when the other went, she
pitched headlong. All that saved her from a horrid fall was the prompt action
of Lamont Cranston.
     He had leaped to the stairs to stop her tumble. Gripped by strong arms,
Helene might have realized much had she looked into the eyes of her rescuer.
They were brilliant eyes, that tried to flash the confidence that would end
her
alarm.
     But Helene did not see them. Wrenching from Cranston's grasp, she flung
herself upon the handcuffed prisoner, throwing her arms about his neck.
     Dwight Kelden was receiving kisses from the girl he loved. No longer was
Helene Graymond willing to hide the truth. She didn't care if Dwight had
murdered Adam Rendrew, nor if he had been charged with the added crime of
killing Froy.
     Helene knew only that she loved Dwight Kelden; and she believed that in
this crisis, she was the only person who could help him. She didn't realize
that there was no aid she could give him.
     One person alone could extract Dwight Kelden from the web of
circumstantial evidence that enmeshed him.
     That being was The Shadow!


    CHAPTER XVIII

    FIND THE MURDERER

     THEY took Dwight Kelden to the room where Adam Rendrew had died. There, a
varied group sat watching, while Inspector Cardona began his quiz.
Commissioner
Weston was leaning back, arms folded, with the air of a presiding judge.
Beside
him, Lamont Cranston calmly smoked a thin cigar.
     Across the room were Osman and Archie. The short, pudgy man was as
serious
as ever, while Archie's sallow features wore their usual smirk. Near the door
were the girls, both clad in colorful kimonos, yet forming a marked feminine
contrast.
     Louise was alert with interest, her blue eyes wide open, anxious not to
miss a thing that happened, her blonde hair very fluffy. Helene was solemn,
her
brown hair streaming as a background for a face that showed real beauty, with
its brimming eyes, tear-stained cheeks and downturned lips.
     Cardona was reconstructing the death scene for Dwight's benefit. Standing
in the center of the room, he pointed to the spot where Rendrew's body had
been
found, then reached over and shook Dwight's shoulders, until the prisoner
stopped looking at his handcuffs and raised his haggard eyes.
      "Your uncle was right here," declared Cardona, "trying to back away from
you, when you gave it to him with the gun. You hopped out into the hall and
took another shot at him. That time, you cracked the window. Then you ran
downstairs and got into the cab that you'd arranged to have outside.
      "But you forgot these," Cardona produced his clues. "First, the paper
that
your uncle tore off his calendar, that said you'd be here that night. Then
this
eyeglass wiper that fell out of your pocket. Last of all, this airplane
time-table that you were foolish enough to leave in the cab."
      Dwight's lips twitched, then tightened. He opened them to ask:
      "Is that all?"
      "No," retorted Cardona. "Here's the bullet that killed Rendrew. From a
.38
caliber gun, to match the revolver we took from you tonight."
      "I suppose," said Dwight, "that you're going to blame me for killing
Froy,
too."
      "We'll get to that later," snapped Cardona, "after you have confessed
murdering your uncle!"
      Dwight sat back and looked around the group. His eyes met Helene's and he
smiled. He let his gaze travel; it was magnetized by other eyes: those of
Lamont Cranston. Dwight found himself wondering at the expression of the
hawk-faced stranger.
      Somehow the commissioner's friend seemed urging the prisoner to tell his
story. Gripped by the impression, Dwight took a long breath. He had been
troubled by the thought that any testimony would be useless, but he began to
sense that he would have one interested listener, aside from Helene, who, by
her admission of love for Dwight, had unfortunately jeopardized her own
standing as a witness.
      "Suppose I told you just what happened," said Dwight, to Cardona. "Would
you listen?"
      Cardona's expression remained noncommittal, but he nodded.
      "Get the letter, then," suggested Dwight, shifting his handcuffed wrists
to one side. "It's in my inside pocket."


     THE letter offered a new angle. Cardona fished for it and found it.
Opening it, he began to read it.
     "From Adam Rendrew," he grunted, "asking you to come here at nine fifteen
on the night of Tuesday the tenth, to talk over an important family matter.
With a postscript that says the matter is very confidential."
     "I received that letter in San Diego," stated Dwight. "It was one reason
why I came East. The other was - well, I wanted to marry Helene."
     "How about the letter you wrote to Louise?" demanded Cardona. "That
didn't
say you were coming East."
     "I didn't want Louise to know it," returned Dwight. "I thought she might
be trying to find out something that she wasn't supposed to know about."
     Louise opened her lips, but couldn't find words to go with them. Archie
reached over and pushed her back into her chair.
     "Don't lose your kimono, sis," he drawled. "If you haven't found out
you're the world's champion snooper, it's time somebody told you!"
     "Don't fool yourself," snapped Louise, finding words for Archie. "When it
comes to butting into other people's business, you're six lengths ahead of
me!"
     Cardona growled for silence. He accepted Dwight's statement regarding
Louise. Handing the letter to Osman, Joe asked:
     "Is that Rendrew's signature?"
     Osman studied the letter. Solemnly, he arose and passed it to Helene.
Then, facing Cardona, he said:
     "I am not sure. I would prefer to have Miss Graymond answer."
     Helene stared at the letter. Amid the silence of the watchers, she felt a
terrible dread. Everything was unreal, except the hopeless shudder that came
over her. She wanted to shrink from every gaze. She knew the signature that
Adam Rendrew used. This one was not his.
     The girl gave a glance toward Osman. He was trying to look sympathetic.
Obviously, he had recognized the signature as a palpable forgery, but did not
care to say so. Helene was wrenched between an urge for honesty and her
whole-hearted desire to help Dwight.
     She looked farther. For the first time, her eyes met Cranston's. His
searching gaze nearly made her exclaim aloud. Those eyes had a strange
resemblance to The Shadow's!
     Helene made her decision. To this moment, every statement of hers had
been
truthful. Her former testimony might prove important; therefore, she wanted it
to be believed. By telling the truth this time, she would prove her sincerity.
Looking away from Cranston, Helene faced Dwight's gaze, while she said:
     "This signature is false!"


      NO reproval expressed itself on Dwight's face. Instead, his eyes showed
admiration. Dwight realized that Helene had wanted to be for him, but had
depended on the truth instead. In her turn, the girl felt an overwhelming
surge
of absolute belief in Dwight's innocence.
      Under Cardona's pressure, John Osman agreed that Helene was correct. The
letter was a forgery. Turning to Dwight, Cardona queried:
      "What's your answer to that?"
      "Only that I received the letter," returned Dwight, steadily, "and
thought
that it was from my uncle. You probably think I faked it, but I didn't."
      Cardona decided to let Dwight go on with his story. It had struck one
snag
already, and would probably meet others.
      "So you got here at quarter past nine," said Cardona, "and found your
uncle waiting for you. Right away, you started an argument, and then shot him
-"
      "Wait!" interrupted Dwight. "I found him, all right. Maybe he didn't
expect me, because he began an argument. He threatened to shoot me, if I
didn't
get out. The next thing I knew, he was backing into the room. Then came the
shot
-"
      "From your gun!"
      "No! Not from my gun. From here, in the room. I jumped back, thinking my
uncle had fired. I wanted to scare him off, so I aimed my gun at the window. I
pulled the trigger and started for the stairs. I couldn't have killed Uncle
Adam. He wasn't anywhere near me when I fired!"
      Cardona thrust his face close to Dwight's.
      "Then what about the clues I've shown you?" demanded the inspector. "The
calendar, the eyeglass wiper, the airplane schedule -"
      "They must have been planted," insisted Dwight. "Faked, like that letter
I
received in California."
      Cardona stepped back. Smiling grimly, he folded his arms and turned to
Weston.
      "What about it, commissioner?" queried Joe. "Shall I keep on grilling him
until he cracks?"
     Weston was starting to nod, when he heard Cranston speak. They held a
buzzed conversation; finally the commissioner nodded.
     "All right, Cranston," he said, indulgently. "If you have a suggestion,
we
shall be glad to hear it."
     Calmly, The Shadow strode to the center of the floor. In Cranston's idle
style, he looked at the spot where Rendrew had lain dead, then glanced about
the room. He looked at Cardona's clues, together with the forged letter that
Dwight claimed was sent to him.
     "My suggestion, commissioner," he said, calmly, "is that we should
consider Kelden's story as if it actually happened; then look for any flaws in
it."
     Weston beamed. He liked that sort of thing. He had always emphasized the
value of deductive reasoning; this might be good instruction for Joe Cardona.
If Cranston brought out some point that would clinch the case against Dwight
Kelden, much valuable time would be saved.


      "LET us assume" - Cranston's tone was casual - "that Kelden did receive
this letter. That brings another party into the case; the person who actually
forged it. Let us determine what else that person could have done."
      He picked up the desk calendar and its torn page, then asked if he could
take two other leaves from it. Weston agreed; detaching two sheets, Cranston
held them close, together and gave a quick tear. He passed the torn leaves to
the commissioner.
      "You will notice," observed The Shadow, in Cranston's tone, "that the
torn
portions of those sheets are interchangeable: Which proves that the torn piece
from Rendrew's daily calendar might have come from some other sheet; let us
say, for instance, from an old calendar of the same make."
      Helene's eyes were very wide. She understood, at last. A year ago, when
Dwight Kelden had been East, Adam Rendrew had probably made a notation on his
calendar. Some one had taken that old date sheet, placed it on the present
year's calendar, and used the very system just demonstrated by Cranston!
      Adam Rendrew had not expected his nephew, Dwight Kelden, to pay that
visit
at nine fifteen, on Tuesday, the tenth. Someone had faked it to appear as if
he
had!
      "As for the eyeglass wiper," she heard Cranston say, "it interested me
considerably, commissioner. Today, I sent a taxi driver into Weeker & Sons to
ask for one. Here it is" - he produced a wiper from his pocket - "along with
an
airplane schedule" - he was drawing out the object mentioned - "that I took
from
a timetable rack in a hotel.
      "Anyone else could have obtained such items, to serve as evidence against
Dwight Kelden. Whether or not someone did, we must judge later. So far, we
have
simply failed to detect anything wrong with Kelden's story."


     THERE was a long pause, during which two persons stared at Lamont
Cranston
with expressions of thanks as well as admiration. Those two were Dwight Kelden
and Helene Graymond. Not that others were lacking in appreciation; both Weston
and Cardona showed plenty. There was a question, though, that they couldn't
fail to ask. It was the commissioner who put it:
     "But who other than Kelden could have shot Rendrew?"
     In Cranston's style, The Shadow looked around the room. He took Rendrew's
position and faced the door.
     "According to your statement" - the question was put to Dwight - "your
uncle backed into the room?"
     Dwight gave a positive nod.
     "Yet he was shot in the back" - Cranston had turned toward the bookcase -
"which means that the bullet must have come from here!"
     With a single sweep, he pulled half a dozen volumes from a shelf.
Reaching
deep, The Shadow rapped his knuckles against metal. He leaned back, to look
into
the space; then eyed the thick wall against which the bookcase stood.
     "An open hot-air register," he announced. "Suppose a gun had been there,
commissioner, pointed out through the loose grating on the front. A gun
equipped with a photoelectric cell - a mechanical eye, issuing a line of black
light straight across the room.
     "Rendrew, backing into the path, would have interrupted the beam. A shot
from the gun, so aimed that the victim could not escape it, would have found
Rendrew's spine and killed him. It would account, too, for the shot that
Kelden
heard."
     The theory left Joe Cardona staring, until ideas began to strike him.
Therewith, he began to quiz Lamont Cranston.
     "Why didn't anyone see the gun?"
     "Let me have your own revolver, inspector."
     Receiving the weapon, The Shadow replaced the books, then pressed the gun
barrel between the center ones. He showed that they formed a gap, though the
gun muzzle was deep from sight.
     "But what happened when the gun was fired?"
     "The weapon recoiled," returned The Shadow, drawing out Cardona's gun.
"The books pressed together" - he pointed, by way of illustration - "and the
revolver dropped down the register pipe."
     Cardona's gun thudded the floor as The Shadow's fingers released it.
     "It sounds good," admitted Cardona. "Only that beam of black light you
talk about must have had a receiving device at the other end of it."
     Cardona paused; he was following Cranston's gaze, toward the floor lamp
near the door. Stepping there, The Shadow removed the unlighted bulb and
smashed it. In its interior was the very apparatus that Cardona had asked
about!
     This time, the silence was ended by a detective shouting from the
stairway:
     "Mr. Cranston's car is here, inspector!"
     "I am very sorry" - The Shadow was Cranston to perfection, as he bowed to
the persons present - "but I must be going home. My physician has ordered it,
because of my recent accident. So good night" - he paused, stepped up to
Dwight
Kelden and gripped the young man's right hand, lifting it with the handcuffs -
"and good luck to you, Kelden!"
     They saw Cranston walk from the room, heard him go down the stairs. Then
came the closing of the front door, audible through the echoing passage of the
big mansion. To all, except one person, that was the final sound of Cranston's
departure.
     Helene Graymond fancied that she heard one token more: a strange,
whispered tone of mirth, that must have wakened itself to life from deep
within
her memory.
     The laugh of The Shadow!


    CHAPTER XIX
     FALSE BRINGS TRUE

      OUT of a mental whirl, Helene Graymond began to realize the depth of The
Shadow's methods. It was he, not Cranston - the girl was still too bewildered
to link the two - who had first divined that the clues against Dwight were
planted.
      She remembered how The Shadow had paced this room and made his
calculations. He had been trying, then, to visualize a way whereby Adam
Rendrew
could have been slain almost in Dwight's presence, without the action of a
human
hand.
      In effect, The Shadow had let his own brain work along the line that the
murderer had followed. Step by step, he had built up a logical way to arrange
the death of a person entering this room, and his final findings had checked!
      Of course, the real murderer had been smart enough to remove the evidence
of crime. He had reclaimed the death gun from the bottom of the hot-air pipe.
He had disposed of the mechanical eye that was attached to it, also the wire
that must have extended down the pipe to a light socket, probably behind the
bottom of the pipe in the cellar.
      He had taken the two books also, because they were scorched by the flame
from the revolver muzzle; and he had replaced the special light bulb with an
ordinary one. He had made two mistakes, however, slight though they seemed.
      The bulb that the killer had put in the lamp socket was a new one, that
lighted when the switch was pressed. The murderer had also left the
last-year's
calendar in the office closet, probably supposed that no one would ever look
for
its missing page.
      Obviously, The Shadow could not have obtained the evidence that the
killer
had destroyed. So he had adopted the neat plan of providing similar items: the
contents of the package that had been delivered at the house!
      It was fair enough, under the circumstances. The murderer had framed
Dwight Kelden by planting clues against him. The only way to nullify those
tangible bits of evidence was to plant other clues against the murderer!
      The Shadow had done exactly that. He had nullified false with false. But
the objects that The Shadow had provided were legitimate substitutes for the
ones that the murderer had removed. From the false, The Shadow had proven the
true.
      One thing puzzled Helene. She felt sure The Shadow had intended to plant
more evidence than the light bulb. The books should have gone on their shelf;
the wire, with its electric light attachment, at the bottom of the hot-air
shaft.
      Why hadn't The Shadow gone through with those arrangements?
      Suddenly, Helene had the answer. The Shadow had made his plans before
Froy's death. Somehow, the servant had meddled into matters, and thereby
produced new complications.
      Joe Cardona was reviewing that very fact. He was asking Dwight:
      "If you didn't murder Rendrew, why did you kill Froy?"
      "I didn't!" returned Dwight. "Froy answered my first phone call. I said I
was at the Espon and gave the room number, even though I didn't mention my
name. He must have guessed who I was. Knowing the law was after me, he figured
I would pay for silence. But I wasn't there when he came. Somebody else killed
him."
      From somewhere, Helene seemed to hear a whisper. It might have been her
imagination, yet it had a tone that she remembered. The voice of The Shadow:
      "Remember the box!"
      Helene nodded. Before Cardona could quiz Dwight further, she interrupted,
to announce:
     "Froy left a metal box with me before he left. He said its contents were
important. I put it in the office safe."


     CARDONA told the girl to come along with him and open the safe, so he
could get the box. Soon, they returned; Cardona was carrying the box, and
Helene was sure that it was heavier than when she had placed it in the safe.
Cardona unclamped the box in front of Weston, then raised the lid.
     Inside were the other objects that Cranston had pictured: a wire with a
photoelectric attachment; two books, matching a pair on the shelf, except that
they were scorched by streaks of gun flame!
     The last-year's calendar was also in the box. Thumbing it, Cardona looked
for the date of Dwight's previous visit East. The page was missing; the fact
fitted with Cranston's theory that an old sheet and a new had been torn as
one.
Then Cardona found a bullet, its nose mashed from an impact.
     "It looks like a .32 caliber," admitted the inspector. "I guess this was
the bullet you fired through the window, Kelden. Froy was pretty smart to go
out and hunt it up."
     Helene was understanding more. With Froy dead, The Shadow had decided to
stow the assembled evidence in the servant's strong box, to make it look as if
Froy had gathered the various clues. That ruse added an authentic touch; the
clues seemed more valid than if they had come from an unknown source.
     But what had Froy left in the box?
     One thing only - a note that Cardona had just found. Reading it, Cardona
announced the high spots. The note said, in effect, that Froy was going to the
Espon Hotel to hunt for Dwight Kelden, hoping to gain a trail for the law. He
was leaving the note as a protection. He intended to tell Dwight that he had
made provision to insure a safe return.
     Obviously, Froy had gone to demand money; though he didn't say so in the
note. He must have supposed that Dwight was actually a murderer, and hence had
regarded his trip as dangerous. But Cardona, influenced by the evidence that
The Shadow had later added to the box, was ready with a theory of his own:
     "Froy wanted to sell you this stuff," he said to Dwight. "He knew that
someone else had planted it to kill Rendrew. I guess it clears you, Kelden -
provided, of course, that it works."
     Deciding that he ought to test the apparatus, the inspector promptly set
to work. He removed the front of the register, clamped the electric eye on the
death gun. Holding the muzzle through the grille, Cardona put the register
front back in place.
     If he had released the revolver, it would have dropped. From that,
Cardona
guessed the real purpose of the books. With Helene helping him, he put them
into
place, and the pressure of the two central volumes held the gun right where it
was.
     Cardona was using the two new books, to learn if they would scorch as
expected. Rather than go down to the cellar, he fished for the cord attached
to
the electric eye, brought it over the books and plugged it into the lamp on
Rendrew's desk.
     Picking up the dummy light bulb that Cranston had broken, Cardona studied
the reception apparatus and gave a satisfied nod.
     "This will work, anyway," he declared. "The glass part of the bulb was
only there to hide it."
     He screwed the broken bulb into the socket, tilted the gun muzzle
slightly, until its aim was correct. Motioning everyone to the side of the
room
near the door, Cardona reached out and turned the lamp switch.
     With the click, a thin black beam appeared, forming a pencil line
straight
from the book-clamped revolver to the broken   bulb in the floor lamp!
     "Cranston was right!" announced Weston.   "Black light, that couldn't have
been seen in darkness! Very well, inspector,   you may cut the beam and complete
the test. Use any suitable object - a table,   for instance; since all the
chairs
are occupied."


     WITNESSES to that dramatic scene were tense, while Cardona was picking up
a light table that stood in the corner. Then, when he had almost reached the
center of the room, Cardona added a new element to the situation.
     Holding the table by one leg, he lowered its top to the floor and looked
at the faces that were watching him.
     Finally, Cardona met Weston's gaze, and questioned:
     "Tell me, commissioner: who do you think killed Adam Rendrew?"
     "Why, Froy, of course!" voiced Weston, suddenly. "He left all the
equipment in the box. We should have thought of that before, inspector."
     "It couldn't have been Froy," asserted Cardona. "He wouldn't have left
the
equipment with the note. If he'd been the murderer, he wouldn't have been
scared
of Kelden. Besides, somebody killed Froy, too. That person, commissioner, must
be here in this room!"
     The logic was solid. So absolute, that Helene realized that The Shadow
did
not have to be here to assert it. He had known, of course, that the fact would
sooner or later strike home to Joe Cardona. The inspector's gaze rested on
Helene, as though he momentarily considered her as a possible suspect; then
his
eyes fixed elsewhere.
     Louise Dreller gave a shriek. Cardona was looking right at her. The
blonde
began to wave her arms excitedly, the sleeves of her silk kimono flapping like
a
butterfly's wings.
     "I didn't kill them - either of them!"
     "We'll forget you for a while," growled Cardona. "You wouldn't know what
a
photoelectric cell was! But your brother here -"
     His gaze was on Archie, who gave a pitiful wince.
     "You and Silk Elredge were up to blackmail, weren't you?"
     Archie nodded at Cardona's question; then found his voice, which was more
whiny than ever.
     "That was all," insisted Archie. "We didn't want to murder Uncle Adam.
Silk said a shakedown was the system."
     "You got money from your uncle's death."
     "Only a little income. Silk wanted more, and so did I. We'd have been
crazy if we'd gone through with a murder. It ruined our plans when Uncle Adam
died. Besides -"
     Archie paused; an idea had struck him, and he expressed it with great
eagerness.
     "Besides, I couldn't have killed Froy tonight. I've got an alibi! I was
at
the poker game, with the fellows you talked to the other night. They'll all
tell
you that I didn't leave the place until Johnny came to get me -"
     "Quite true!"
      IT was John Osman who provided the interruption. Cardona swung about, and
faces turned with him. All eyes were looking at a gun that Osman had drawn.
      Only Dwight Kelden found his voice, to exclaim: "That's my gun! The one
that was in my suitcase!"
      "Of course," sneered Osman. "I found Froy's box tonight, while Helene was
upstairs. Only the note was in it, at the time. After I left the house, I
phoned the police and told them where you were. I went to the Hotel Espon
myself, intending to take some credit for your capture.
      "Froy was there ahead of me. He had your gun, so I shot him with the one
I
carried - the same revolver that killed Rendrew. I left the .38 where you
would
pick it up, and took the .32 with me. I was starting down the stairs when you
stepped out of the elevator. You walked right into the new trap I'd laid for
you."
      Once started, Osman did not mind talking more. He swung toward Archie:
      "I knew that you and Silk were staging something. So I got rid of
Rendrew.
It was the one way I could be sure of getting the chunk of the estate that was
due me. As for you" - he swung to Dwight again - "I sent you that forged
letter, to bring you here.
      "I fixed the clues, including the airplane schedule that I stuffed in
Dogan's cab while he was at the Busy Bee. I called him, told him to be around
after nine. I'd counted on you finding your uncle dead, when you arrived. I
thought you'd sneak out and grab the first cab you saw."
      A bitter smile framed Osman's lips. It showed regret for plans gone
wrong,
yet a satisfaction also, at the way in which schemes had stood the strain.
      "Helene happened to be here," remarked Osman, "and Rendrew was still
alive. But the whole thing worked as well as I expected. The next day, I
cleared out the evidence. If it had been found in the meantime" - Osman
chuckled gleefully - "it would have been blamed on Archie, never upon myself!"
      Gradually, Osman's chortle diminished. His eyes took on a vicious glare.
Sweeping the group with his ugly gaze, he asserted:
      "I've got six bullets in this gun! One for each of you! I may not kill
all
of you" - he was flourishing the revolver - "but you won't stop my getaway!
It's
my turn to use that side door, and afterward" - he gritted the next threat -
"I'm going to get the man who figured out my game and planted fake evidence to
match the clues that I destroyed. Yes! I'm going to get -"
      Osman did not add the name: "The Shadow." A strange laugh interrupted,
quivering from the hallway. The Shadow was present to announce himself. He was
swinging through the doorway, an automatic in his fist.
      But it seemed that The Shadow, at last, had laughed once too soon.


     THE SHADOW stumbled, half across the threshold. Helene, nearest to him,
leaped from her chair to aid his stumbling form. She didn't realize that The
Shadow had tripped purposely. His stumble was a bait to bring Osman's gun away
from the others, toward The Shadow's own direction.
     Cardona grabbed the table by the leg and wheeled to batter Osman with the
improvised weapon. The killer was stepping back, aiming coolly for The Shadow,
not realizing that a snap of a black-sleeved wrist was bringing a gloved hand
to an aim more rapid than his. At that instant, there was a sharp report.
     It didn't come from The Shadow's gun. Nor did Osman fire it, for the
murderer was crumpling. A curl of smoke issued from between two books in the
center of a shelf. It vanished, as the flame-seared volumes pressed together.
The cord leading to the table lamp went taut, then jerked clear. It whipped
snakily over the tops of the books and disappeared.
     From below came a faint clang, as the death gun struck the partly-padded
bottom of the hot-air shaft. The gun had been sent there by its own recoil.
     John Osman had backed across the path of the black beam!
     The murderer had taken the identical death that he had delivered to Adam
Rendrew. Sprawled on the floor, a bullet through his spine, Osman had added
the
last touch that vindicated Dwight Kelden of past crime!
     While eyes were staring toward the dead killer, The Shadow's laugh
trailed. Helene reached the doorway, saw that the hall was empty. Then, while
she still hoped for a last glimpse of The Shadow, Dwight arrived beside her.
     Cardona had relieved the prisoner of his handcuffs. Dwight's arms
infolding her, Helene felt herself drawn into the hallway, where she learned
the thrill of an embrace that she had awaited during many months of longing.
     From somewhere deep in the old house, trailing an eerie note of triumph
that stirred weird, lingering echoes from every nook and alcove, came the
parting laugh of The Shadow!


    THE END