Shadowed Millions s-21

by Maxwell Grant

  “Remember, Desmond,” he said in parting, “I rely upon you as my sure intermediary. My success

  depends upon your cooperation. I must keep all suspicion on the wrong spot until the last minute. Think

  of my safety; also that of Lopez and Wallace. Francisco, also”—Legira smiled in afterthought—

  “because he will be here with me.”

  “You can depend upon me,” declared Desmond, in a positive tone.

  Legira walked with the other man to the front door. Scarcely had they left the room before there was a

  motion by the end of the bookcase. The tall figure of The Shadow was visible as it came momentarily into

  the light. Then the being in black moved toward the window. The sash raised noiselessly and closed

  again.

  THE sedan was pulling from the drive. Its lights threw a long beam upon the corner of the old house.

  They showed strange shadows there. Then Frank Desmond was speeding westward toward New York.

  Whirling on at sixty miles an hour along the open road, Desmond was pondering over the new mission

  which had been given to him. He was thinking of the additional thousand dollars and the ease with which

  he had acquired it.

  A horn sounded behind the sedan and Desmond inclined to the right as a swift coupe sped past him at a

  terrific rate. It must have been making nearly ninety miles an hour, for its tail light disappeared with

  amazing rapidity.

  Little did Frank Desmond realize that the swift coupe was piloted by another man who knew his plans as

  well as he. The Shadow, hastening back to New York, was thinking, like Desmond, of a sum of money.

  But his mind was concerned with more than a thousand dollars. The Shadow was thinking of the box

  which Legira possessed—the box that contained ten million!

  A sound came above the roar of the coupe's motor. That sound was a mocking laugh. Foreboding mirth,

  it spelled doom to those who resorted to crime. The Shadow, strange creature of the night, had learned

  the plans of Alvarez Legira.

  He had been within reach of the ten million dollars, yet he had chosen to let the wealth remain, for the

  time, in the possession of the scheming man from Santander.

  The Shadow had more work to do before to-morrow night. Lives, as well as money, were at stake!

  What was The Shadow's purpose? How did he intend to cope with the strange mixture of plans that

  surrounded the final fate of the hoard of wealth that Legira had obtained?

  Only The Shadow knew!

  CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW'S THEORY

  IT was after midnight. Detective Joe Cardona was still in the office of John Hendrix. He was alone. The

  bodies had been removed and now the shrewd detective was examining the evidence.

  There was a knock at the door. Cardona uttered a gruff command to enter. A policeman came into the

  room and announced that Lamont Cranston had arrived.

  “Show him in,” ordered Cardona, “but keep the reporters out, until after I have talked with him.”

  Lamont Cranston, tall and calm-faced, entered.

  The man was faultlessly attired in evening clothes. He looked inquiringly at Cardona. The detective

  pointed to a chair beside the desk. Cranston sat down and Cardona leaned against the wall and began to

  speak.

  “Glad you got here, Mr. Cranston,” he said. “I have been talking to a fellow named Roger Cody and he

  said that he had better discuss matters with you.”

  “Certainly,” said Cranston, with a quick smile. “Cody could not very well discuss the subject of financial

  arrangements that Hendrix made. He was quite right to refer you to me. This is a terrible

  tragedy”—Cranston's face became stern—“and I intend to do all in my power to aid in the capture of the

  murderer.”

  “We should have had him,” said Cardona ruefully. “He didn't get away until after I was here. Broke loose

  through a whole squad. They charged him, but he dodged them in a car.”

  “I should like to know the details,” suggested Cranston. “Then I can tell you whatever facts may be of

  assistance to you in following this case.”

  “Well,” said Cardona, “Hendrix was here in his apartment all afternoon. His man, Jermyn, was here also.

  There may have been some one else here, but they don't seem to know about it downstairs. People go in

  and out of this apartment house pretty freely. We do know that Hendrix had some business with a man

  named Legira, but there is no telling if Legira was here or not.

  “At any rate, this fellow, Powell, came to see Hendrix. We haven't got any dope on when he came in,

  either; they're careless downstairs. Shots were heard, just before nine o'clock. They might not have been

  noticed, but the receiver was off the hook of the telephone and central heard the shots.

  “Central made a call to police headquarters and another to the apartment house. When I got here with

  my squad, we met a couple of men who had come down from this floor. They had been beating at the

  door, but hadn't been able to break it. We came and crashed in; the killer got out the window.”

  “At what time was that?” asked Cranston.

  “Nine twenty-five,” replied Cardona.

  “Did the murderer leave any evidence?” questioned Cranston.

  “I'm coming to that,” said Cardona. “This man Cody called up from the Baltham Trust Company. He

  seemed to have something on his mind. He came up here at our request.

  “He told us that Legira, who is a consul from some country called Santander, came in to see him, at the

  order of Hendrix. It was Cody's business to give certain funds to Legira. Now, here comes the important

  part!

  “Cody was to hear from Hendrix before nine o'clock. Hendrix was killed before nine o'clock, so that

  may be why Cody didn't hear from him. Cody figured the best thing to do was to locate this fellow,

  Legira, but I found out he was worried only about his own affairs, and he couldn't tell me much more

  beyond the fact that he had delivered the money to Legira.

  “I wanted to see some connection between Legira and the murderer. As soon as I figured the time

  element, I saw that it didn't work. The murderer was here at nine twenty-five; Cody tells me that Legira

  was at the bank at nine thirty.”

  “The murders were committed before nine o'clock, were they not?” asked Cranston.

  “I thought of that,” said Cardona, “but it doesn't mean anything, because the murderer was still here when

  we arrived. One man did all the shooting— we're sure of that—we've got his gun, right here on the

  desk.”

  CRANSTON reached forward to pick up the gleaming revolver. Cardona stopped him with a gesture.

  “Don't touch it,” said the detective. “There's finger prints on the handle. That's the one clew we have to

  the murderer. Finger prints; they're on the gun; they're on the neck of Jermyn; they're on the window

  sash. Now, what I want to get is the man who made those finger prints.”

  “What about Legira?” asked Cranston, coming back to the original subject.

  “I've waited to see you about him,” said Cardona. “The man is a consul, and I haven't found a thing to

  implicate him in any way. The only suspicion is that Legira might not have wanted Hendrix to call Cody at

  the bank. That's why I want to find out more about Legira's affairs, before taking any action. What can

  you tell me?”

  “What I say,” declared Cranston, in a low careful voice, “must be treated with absolute confidence.

 
; Hendrix had full authority to deliver certain funds into the hands of Alvarez Legira. I was concerned with

  those funds. Like Cody, I should like to be sure of their safety, but I cannot see how they connect Legira

  with this terrible affair here to-night. However, there is a very simple way in which you can learn if Legira

  had anything to do with this affair.”

  “How's that?” asked Joe Cardona, eagerly.

  “Call at his residence,” said Cranston, calmly. “Legira conducts all his affairs in person, or through his

  secretary, Lopez. Very probably Legira does not know that Hendrix has been killed.

  “If you want to make sure of things, try to get finger prints of both Legira and his secretary. If they give

  them and they do not correspond with the marks that you have, you will know definitely that Legira and

  his man are not connected in this matter.”

  “That sounds logical,” agreed Cardona. “I'll do it, immediately. But what about this matter of the

  money?”

  “I shall attend to that,” declared Cranston. “My car is outside. It might be best for us to go together. If

  Legira is there and all is well, I shall have no question to ask him. He had full right to obtain the money

  and I shall be satisfied to find him at home.”

  Cranston's plan was so direct that Cardona lost no time in accompanying the quiet-faced millionaire to his

  car. They found the limousine parked outside the apartment house; Cranston gave an address to the

  chauffeur. Fifteen minutes later, the detective and the millionaire alighted in front of Legira's home.

  Cardona pressed the bell; a few seconds later there was a sound of bolts being undone and Lopez

  opened the door to admit them.

  “Remember me, Lopez?” asked Cranston. “I met you at the consular office. I am Lamont Cranston.”

  “Yes, senor,” said Lopez seriously. “Do you wish to see Senor Legira?”

  Cranston nodded. The secretary conducted the two men upstairs. They found Perry Wallace, still in the

  guise of Alvarez Legira, seated in the chair, smoking one of the inevitable cigarettes.

  The false Legira looked up wonderingly as they entered. Lopez suddenly realized his mistake in bringing

  the visitors in unannounced. He spoke quickly to Perry, indicating Cranston with a gesture.

  “Mr. Cranston has come to see you sir,” said the secretary. “I do not know the name of this other

  gentleman—”

  “Detective Cardona, from headquarters,” answered Cranston.

  Perry looked at the detective with unfeigned surprise. Cardona noticed the glance and made haste to

  explain the purpose of his visit.

  “I have very bad news,” declared the detective. “Mr. Hendrix was killed tonight—murdered!”

  “Mr. Hendrix!” The exclamation came from Perry. He did not know just what the connection between

  Legira and Hendrix might be, but he realized that it was his part to show both surprise and consternation.

  He did this well.

  “We want to know,” began Cardona, “just what you can tell us about Hendrix. We want to know when

  you saw him last.”

  “Let me explain,” interrupted Cranston quietly. “The police have found evidence that will lead them to the

  murderer of Mr. Hendrix and two other men. That evidence consists of finger prints. The simplest

  method is to try to eliminate every one who might have known Hendrix or who might have been there in

  his apartment.

  “Detective Cardona called me in because I knew Hendrix. In order to help the law, I gave him an

  impression of my finger prints. I think it might be a good idea, Mr. Legira, if you and your secretary

  would do the same. That will make further annoyance unnecessary.”

  Cardona looked at Cranston in admiration. The simple way in which his companion had handled the

  matter impressed him. At the same time Perry Wallace looked relieved.

  This was a complication which he had not anticipated, in the role of Legira. He knew that whatever had

  happened, both he and Lopez were innocent; hence, in true Legira fashion, he bowed to give his consent.

  TEN minutes later Cardona and Cranston were back in the millionaire's limousine, riding toward the

  apartment where Hendrix had lived.

  “You handled that admirably,” commended Cardona. “It's a difficult job to deal with such people, and it

  sometimes runs us into complications. That was a great idea, telling him that you had given me

  impressions, yourself.”

  “I thought of it on the spur of the moment,” admitted Cranston, “as soon as we get back to the Hendrix

  apartment, I shall give you those very impressions. It is your business as a detective to suspect every one.

  It will save me, as well as Legira, the inconvenience of going into details regarding my whereabouts

  to-night.”

  Cardona laughed at Cranston's frankness. He decided that the millionaire would have made a good

  detective.

  They arrived at the apartment. Cranston did exactly as he said he would. He gave Cardona the finger

  prints. It did not take the detective long to ascertain that none of the three—Legira, Lopez, or

  Cranston—could have been the man who fired the fatal shots.

  “Well, there are three eliminated,” declared Cardona, with a short laugh. “I hope I have better luck with

  the next impressions I get.”

  “Perhaps you will,” responded Cranston, in a cryptic tone.

  THE millionaire left the apartment. Joe Cardona was thinking about him after he had gone. He liked

  Cranston's quiet, businesslike manner. Again Cardona said to himself that Cranston would have made a

  great detective.

  Cardona had now formulated a theory. Legira was definitely out of the picture. He had no idea who the

  murderer might be, but he intended to scour the underworld, believing that some gangster might be

  responsible.

  It was logical to suppose that a gunman had entered to make certain demands upon so wealthy a man as

  Hendrix, and that, in the ensuing fight, Hendrix and his companions had been slain.

  Cardona felt very pleased because he had the evidence of clear finger prints. His one regret was that he

  had not managed to prevent the escape of the man he believed to have been the murderer. Not for one

  minute did the star detective begin to realize the tremendous amount of data that he had missed.

  Lamont Cranston, friendly and helpful, could have told Cardona facts that would have amazed him.

  Cardona was looking at Cranston's finger prints now. What would he have thought if he had known that

  they were the finger prints of The Shadow; that strange, mysterious personage whose very name spelled

  terror to the underworld?

  Cardona would not have believed it if some one had told him that Cranston was the same man who had

  fought his way through the cordon of police surrounding the apartment house. Yet that was only a

  fraction of the work The Shadow had done to-night.

  As The Shadow, he had taken away documents which linked Hendrix with Legira, thus lulling suspicion

  in the direction of the consul. He had settled the matter of Cody's worries regarding the transaction in

  which the true Legira had received ten million-dollars.

  He had saved Perry Wallace, the false Legira, from the trouble of answering pointed questions, and had

  rescued him from death at the hands of Lopez. More than that, he had obtained, for Cardona, finger

  prints of the false and not the true Legira.

  Besides, The Shadow had changed the time eleme
nt in the murder, thus taking the last vestige of

  suspicion from Legira; and to even matters, he had trailed the real consul to his secret retreat.

  The hand of The Shadow was working stealthily to-night. Its purpose was mysterious. Even Joe

  Cardona, the only detective on the New York force who had ever encountered The Shadow in person,

  did not suspect the work of the man in black.

  Now, while Cardona pondered, The Shadow had gone on some new mission. His work was not yet

  ended. Cardona did not know that he was thinking of The Shadow. Yet he was, for he was thinking of

  Lamont Cranston.

  Alone in the room of death, the detective was still staring at those finger prints and to his mind came the

  chance remark that Cranston had uttered when Cardona had expressed the wish that he might obtain the

  finger prints of the murderer.

  “Perhaps you will,” Cranston had said.

  Actually, it was The Shadow who had spoken. Whenever The Shadow spoke, his words were

  significant.

  The words of The Shadow were often prophetic.

  CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW'S PLANS

  A LIGHT clicked in a darkened room. The glow of a lamp spread its circular spot upon a table top.

  White hands appeared beneath the glare. The Shadow was in his sanctuary.

  The hands worked with pencil and paper. They were jotting down cryptic notations and important items.

  These were legible only to the man who wrote them.

  A column of figures took on the appearance of a time-table. Events were being scheduled with accuracy.

  The hand paused, leaving its work but partly done. A mouthpiece and a set of earphones came into the

  light; then disappeared in the gloom. The voice of The Shadow spoke.

  “Burbank.”

  A pause. Then:

  “Report in detail—”

  The hand worked as the ears listened. More figures appeared in the tabulations. Then came an inquiry

  from The Shadow.

  “Ballou?”

  A voice clicked through the earphones. It asked a question.

  “Report,” answered The Shadow, “as soon as Vincent tells you he has left the Hotel Oriental.”

  A piece of paper dropped upon the table. It was the sheet that Perry Wallace had given to The Shadow.

  It bore the words:

  Pete Ballou—Hotel Oriental.

  This address had evidently been given to Burbank by The Shadow when the man in black had held that