"Then you have failed," said Carleton, in a disappointed tone.
"Perhaps," said Zubian calmly. "On the contrary, I may have succeeded. I believe that I have traced The Shadow to his own environment. There, I may be able to watch him and still escape observation."
"What environment do you think he chooses?"
"An environment such as this," said Zubian, looking about him with a smile. "This club is one of the most exclusive in New York, is it not?"
"It is considered by many to be the most exclusive," returned Carleton.
"Then," declared Zubian, "it would prove quite attractive to a person such as The Shadow.
"Consider the matter sensibly, Carleton. The Shadow fights with gangsters. Does that make him a gangster? Not a bit of it. Intelligent generals wage campaigns against savages; that does not make them savages.
"The Shadow, apparently, spends much of his time in New York, although he has, on critical occasions, appeared abroad. Criminals have tried to find him in the underworld. They have failed.
"You and I are criminals"—Zubian stated the fact with unfeigned pride— "yet we are not associating with crooks at present. The Shadow is undoubtedly of a caliber superior to our own. So we may assume that he, too, would choose an environment such as the Cobalt Club."
ZUBIAN paused to light a cigarette. His eyes turned toward Carleton with a knowing glow. In a low, impressive tone, he added remarks to support his theory concerning The Shadow.
"Two agents of The Shadow have been discovered," stated Zubian. "One of them—Vincent, by name—appears to be a man of leisure, living at the Metrolite Hotel. The other—Rutledge Mann—is an investment broker. Only a man of discrimination would choose such agents.
"After Zipper Marsh entered the Grayson home, The Shadow deprived him of a valuable mass of spoils.
No one could possibly have traced the stolen articles. Yet they were restored, intact, by The Shadow.
"The possession of those goods did not change The Shadow's purpose. Therefore, we may safely say that The Shadow is a man who is already wealthy."
"You are right," agreed Carleton, in admiration. "Yes, you are right, beyond a doubt."
"Now," continued Zubian, "we must begin to trace The Shadow. If he were a crook—or a detective—that might be extremely difficult. But he is neither. He appears to be unique. He is a man on the border line. He chooses to support the law; yet he invokes the methods used by the criminals whom he fights. Therefore, we must look for a wealthy man who is above suspicion, yet whose normal operations are few and scattered."
"Where will we find such a man?"
"Here, perhaps," smiled Zubian. "Somewhere else, possibly. It may take time to uncover him. Therefore, I shall require your cooperation - and I shall expect Gats Hackett to keep entirely out of the affair. His work will come later, after we have located The Shadow. Now that I have explained my purpose, we can discuss other matters."
"One moment," interposed Carleton. "You have no idea how long it will require to trace The Shadow?
This intrigues me -"
"If fortune favors me," stated Zubian, "I may trace him to-night— with your cooperation."
"With my cooperation?"
"Yes. Come with me."
As Carleton arose, Zubian was speaking to him in a low tone. Carleton nodded, scarcely understanding the import of the words, yet realizing fully what was expected of him.
"We are going to stroll through the club," said Zubian. "There are comparatively few members here at present. I want you to tell me what you know about any of whom I might ask you."
The men walked along together. They passed through the lobby. They entered the library. They reached a corner of the room where a tall man dressed in evening clothes was seated at a reading desk.
Zubian stopped; then caught himself and continued on. It was not the sight of the man that had made him hesitate; it was the shadow that he had seen upon the floor. There—a jet-black spot—lay a silhouette that closely resembled the one Zubian had seen on Twenty-third Street!
Regaining his composure, Zubian threw a quiet glance toward the man at the reading desk. The face of the man impressed him. It was a firm, chiseled countenance that was almost masklike in appearance.
In that steady glance, Zubian could gain no idea of the man's age. Zubian noticed the eyes of the man at the desk. They were sharp and piercing, flashing as they peered, like living lights, from that inscrutable visage.
Outside the library, Zubian urged Carleton back toward the grillroom, questioning him as they walked along.
"That man at the desk," whispered Zubian, "in the corner. Who is he?"
"His name is Lamont Cranston," answered Carleton. "He is a multimillionaire—a great traveler. Says very little. No one knows where he has been, or how long he has been away. He seems concerned only with himself."
Felix Zubian was smiling when they reached the grillroom. Carleton, sitting opposite him, could not understand.
"Lamont Cranston"—Zubian pronounced the name softly—"Lamont Cranston. So that is the name of the man we saw in the library. You are sure his name is Lamont Cranston?"
"Of course," exclaimed Carleton. "He is Lamont Cranston -"
"You mean," interposed Zubian, "that he calls himself Lamont Cranston."
"Calls himself Lamont Cranston?" questioned Carleton. "If he is not Lamont Cranston, who is he?"
"He is The Shadow!" returned Felix Zubian, with a glistening smile of exultation. "He is The Shadow—and I have become his shadow! Fortune has favored me to-night!"
CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOWING
ON the following day, Felix Zubian began a task that was greatly to his liking. He became The Shadow's shadow. He took up this work under ideal conditions; for it was no longer necessary for him to trail a phantom of the night. Instead, he was tracking a man who made no efforts to avoid observation.
In shadowing The Shadow, Zubian was extremely careful. He knew that it would be unwise to stay too close to the man who posed under the identity of Lamont Cranston; so he decided to use the Cobalt Club as his base of operations. Douglas Carleton facilitated matters by introducing Zubian as a guest member of the club.
Lamont Cranston lunched at the club at noon. When he left the place, Zubian was standing outside the revolving door. He heard Cranston give the doorman the address of a building on a side street near Times Square. That address was repeated to a cab driver who had pulled up.
After Cranston had left, Zubian headed for the spot. He found the address to be that of an old building.
Zubian entered the place and ascended a flight of dilapidated stairs. He studied each floor as he went up, intending to make a more careful inspection on the way down.
On the hallway of the fifth floor, Zubian noticed only one occupied office. As he passed it, the door began to open. Without hesitating, Zubian continued on and fumbled with the door of an office beyond.
Peering cautiously, he saw Cranston's tall form heading for the stairway. Zubian smiled, realizing that he had escaped detection.
After Cranston's departure, Zubian hastened from the building and went back to the Cobalt Club.
Cranston had not returned; so Zubian decided to make some quiet investigations. By casual questioning of employees of the club, he learned a few facts concerning the multimillionaire.
Lamont Cranston lived in a palatial home in New Jersey, and went there every night. He was unquestionably an eccentric sort of man. This, together with the information that Carleton had given, brought Zubian to the conclusion that the identity of Cranston was one which The Shadow had assumed merely as a convenient cloak.
Lamont Cranston was noted as a traveler and a hunter of big game. His affairs, Zubian learned, were so arranged that they moved along while he was out of the country.
Zubian knew, from his contact with gangland, that The Shadow was always close to New York. Yet these expeditions which Cranston undertook were certainly bona fide. What, then, was the solution?
<
br /> The answer came. There must be a real Lamont Cranston—a man now absent from the United States—and The Shadow must pose as him during his absence. A clever scheme, indeed, thought Zubian.
WHEN Cranston dined at the club that evening, Zubian watched again. The millionaire left in a taxi—his destination a theater. Zubian went to the same playhouse.
He saw Cranston in the lobby, and watched him. He noted that Cranston went to a telephone booth in the lounge, between each act. But Zubian could not approach close enough to overhear the conversation.
After the show, Cranston returned to the club. There, Zubian saw him depart in a limousine.
Calling a cab, The Shadow's shadow traced the car. It went downtown, passed through the Holland Tunnel, and headed west in New Jersey. Zubian followed no farther.
The second day, Zubian was again watching for Cranston. He saw the millionaire arrive for luncheon at the club. Once again, Cranston visited the building near Times Square. This time, Zubian went there, but did not enter. He took it for granted that The Shadow—for Zubian had no doubt as to the man's identity—had gone to that office on the fifth floor.
Cranston came out, and Zubian entered the building. He went up to the fifth floor and boldly knocked at the door of the office. A wheedling voice invited him to come in. Entering, Zubian discovered an old man.
"You would like to see some of my curios?" questioned this individual.
"Ah, yes," responded Zubian. "Not to-day, but later, Mr."—he paused, as though trying to recall a name—"ah, I have forgotten -"
"Crayle is my name," interposed the old man. "Hawthorne Crayle. A very unusual name."
"I remember it now," said Zubian, with a smile. "Some one told me to come here and get acquainted. I am interested in curios, you know."
The old man became loquacious. He talked of his unique business, hardly allowing Zubian a chance to interpose a word.
When Zubian left, he felt that he had followed a blind trail. It was obvious that Cranston came here only to look over the old man's wares. Crayle had mentioned that certain wealthy men were interested in the goods he had to offer. Cranston was probably but one of them.
Shortly before six o'clock, Zubian, back at the Cobalt Club, saw Cranston enter. The millionaire made a telephone call. That fact was important. Zubian recalled that Cranston had made a similar call the day before.
After dinner, Zubian began another shadowing of The Shadow. It led to a theater; but there Cranston merely purchased tickets for a future show, and went back to the club, where he spent the evening in leisure.
FELIX ZUBIAN was disgruntled as he sat in the grillroom. In all his shadowing, he had discovered nothing. There was no visit to Twenty-third Street; no action against gangsters; no contact—unless by telephone—with Rutledge Mann or Harry Vincent.
After Cranston had again departed for his New Jersey home, Zubian realized that he was dealing with a shrewd antagonist. Somehow, Cranston must have surmised that enemies were present; or else he was merely playing a waiting game until crime developed that would demand the presence of The Shadow.
When the third day arrived, Zubian planned a visit to New Jersey, should nothing else develop. He saw Cranston arrive at the club in his limousine. Zubian had learned the name of the chauffeur—Stanley. That was his only contact with Cranston's home affairs.
Once again, Cranston left in a cab for the building near Times Square. This seemed to be a habit with him; yet Zubian saw no significance.
He trailed Cranston after the man left the place. To Zubian's chagrin, Cranston merely visited a motion-picture matinee. That, Zubian decided, would be an opportunity to pay a quick visit to Cranston's home in New Jersey. Zubian called Gats Hackett, and soon afterward met a gangster-driven sedan. He rode to the Holland Tunnel, through the tube, and into New Jersey.
It was then that Zubian became impatient. His impatience brought sudden inspiration. He ordered the gangster to return to New York. On the trip, Zubian became intensely active. He chuckled as his car rolled through the tunnel. He began making notations as he rode up Seventh Avenue.
Reaching a spot near Gats Hackett's hotel, Zubian alighted and entered a telephone booth. He called the Devaux home, and was fortunate enough to find Carleton there. Zubian quickly stated the purpose of his call.
"I want to see Gats Hackett," he told Carleton. "Get in touch with him right away. Tell him to take orders from me, to-night. I have a plan."
Carleton's acquiescence came across the wire. Zubian waited a short while; then strolled up to see the gang leader. Their conference was a brief but important one. When Zubian again appeared upon the street, he wore a suave smile.
Outside of the theater where Cranston had gone, Zubian waited at an inconspicuous spot, and picked up the millionaire's trail when the man appeared. Cranston went directly to the Cobalt Club, and Zubian followed. There, at six o'clock, Cranston made the inevitable telephone call.
Zubian was not at all annoyed when he discovered that Cranston was evidently intending to spend the evening at the club. Instead, Zubian kept out of Cranston's sight for the time, and put in another call to Douglas Carleton. He told the young clubman to stop at the club after he left Devaux's. This was to be Carleton's first visit there since Zubian had discovered the identity of The Shadow, and had so effectively become The Shadow's shadow.
Dining late, Zubian thought of what he had planned for to-night. Shadowing The Shadow had brought him a solution for the pressing problem—the elimination of The Shadow. That was the purpose which to-night intrigued Felix Zubian, The Shadow's shadow.
CHAPTER XIII. DEATH TO THE SHADOW
LATER that night, Felix Zubian was seated in the library of the Cobalt Club. Quiet and unassuming, he had masked his usual personality with remarkable skill.
Zubian was quietly confident. He had played the role of spy to perfection. Convinced now that the pretended Lamont Cranston was The Shadow, Zubian had worked with exceptional stealth. Not once had he given any trace that might have led the false Cranston to suspect his presence.
As he read a newspaper, Zubian kept a watchful eye on Cranston, who was seated in another part of the room. At this game of observation, Zubian had never met an equal. Well did he know and respect the capability of the man with whom he was dealing; but at the same time, Zubian possessed the faculty of recognizing facts. All of his past ability was serving him, and he was sure that Cranston did not suspect that he was being watched.
It was nearly midnight. Zubian watched as Cranston arose and walked slowly toward the door. From the spot where Zubian was sitting, it was quite possible to observe what took place in the outside lobby; there, Zubian saw Cranston speak to an attendant. A few moments later, the tall, dignified millionaire went toward the door that led to the street.
This was Zubian's cue. It was the moment that he had been awaiting. With catlike stride he left the library and entered a telephone booth. He gave a number, uttered a few cryptic words to the man at the other end; then left the booth and sauntered to the grillroom. Here he found Douglas Carleton seated at a table.
"You have been waiting here long?" questioned Zubian, with a smile.
"About fifteen minutes," responded Carleton. "Tell me—has anything developed?"
"I shall come to that," said Zubian, still smiling. "What do you have to report?"
"Nothing," replied Carleton wearily. "Another evening up at Devaux's."
"Was Milbrook there?"
"Yes—for a while. Still trying to sell diamonds to Devaux; but it will be a long while before that goes through."
"And the girl?"
"Virginia? She has a crush on Milbrook. That doesn't matter for the time. She will find out that it won't work. There are lots of ways of dealing with that fellow. I think we can take care of him when we are ready."
"Very easily," smiled Zubian. "We must allow nothing to interfere with Douglas Carleton becoming the son-in-law of Stanford Devaux. That will prove of the utmost value in the futu
re. I must congratulate you, Carleton, upon planning such an excellent arrangement."
A SHORT pause followed; then Zubian quietly turned to a subject in which Carleton seemed to be intensely interested; namely, the recent departure of Lamont Cranston from the Cobalt Club.
"The end is plainly in sight," were Zubian's opening words. "Everything has worked perfectly. I have just talked to Gats Hackett by telephone."
"Ah! He is ready?"
"Not only ready—he is on his way, with plenty of time to spare."
"You are sure your method will work?"
"I do not see how it can fail," stated Zubian proudly. "It is well-founded upon careful observation. When I told you that I wanted to give instructions directly to Gats Hackett, it was very wise of you to permit me to do so. I also appreciate your willingness to wait until all was under way before learning of my operations."
"You wanted it that way," responded Carleton. "I decided you must know what you were about. After all, it was good policy for us to say little to each other. But now -"
"Now," announced Zubian, "I shall tell you all. I have been watching this man who calls himself Lamont Cranston; but I have not been watching him too closely. Therein lies the merit of my plan. I discovered one particular fact. Every night, when Cranston leaves the club, he goes directly home to New Jersey, driven in his limousine by a chauffeur named Stanley.
"There are various avenues which Cranston's car might follow; but there is one channel which it is sure to take. That passage, I decided, should be the base of our operations."
"The Holland Tunnel!"
"Exactly. I have studied it carefully. With my plans completely arranged, I gave instructions to Gats Hackett. He added a few suggestions of his own. As a result, we are prepared to-night— prepared with a method of attack that Cranston cannot possibly suspect.
"In his career as The Shadow, our friend Cranston has met with some difficult situations; but I fancy that in every such instance he has been garbed in the black costume which he prizes so highly. As Lamont Cranston, he lives a prosaic existence, free from the unexpected. That condition will be altered to-night.
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